


Moon, Take Thy Flight

by boasamishipper



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Once Upon a Time Fusion, Angst and Feels, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Happily Ever After, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Magic, Reality Bending, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, The Dark Curse - Freeform, True Love, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21523315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boasamishipper/pseuds/boasamishipper
Summary: Private investigator Bradley Bradshaw has been an orphan all his life, and has long since stopped believing in fairy tales, magic, or happy endings (particularly ones for himself). All of that changes when he is called to Storybrooke, Maine, at the behest of a young woman named Phoenix, who believes the town’s residents are fairy tale characters under a curse – and he is the only one that can save them.
Relationships: Bradley Bradshaw & Carole Bradshaw, Bradley Bradshaw/Phoenix (Top Gun: Maverick), Charlotte "Charlie" Blackwood/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Comments: 40
Kudos: 54





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



**a long time ago…**

The forest passes by him in a blur of green and brown, his horse’s hooves pounding against the dirt as he urges it to go even faster. Every breath burns his lungs, and his heart hammers against his ribs. Terror and desperation threaten to choke him; no matter how fast he rides, he cannot ignore the sinking feeling that he is already too late.

Finally, he reaches a clearing and pulls at the horse’s reins, causing it to skid to a halt. He dismounts before it’s even stopped moving, striding toward the men gathered in the meadow. Each of them wear the uniforms of officers serving in the Royal Navy; the same uniform he himself wears with pride. As he approaches, a tall man with chiseled features and brown hair cut short looks up. Without saying a word, the man steps aside, revealing what they had all been standing around.

In the center of the group is a glass coffin, and there is no mistaking the figure that lies within. Dark hair, red lips, skin as pale as snow. Hands folded over a chest that no longer rises or falls. Lifeless.

“No.” The word escapes before he can stop it, ripped from him in a horrified gasp. His feet keep leading him towards the coffin, which he cannot take his eyes off. “No, no, no…Mav?”

“I’m sorry, Ice,” says the tall man at the front of the group, not without a hint of regret. “The Wicked King got to him…we were too late. He’s gone.”

Ice shakes his head in disbelief — not because he distrusts Slider’s word, but because he cannot make himself believe it. It can’t have ended like this. Not when Ice hadn’t even had the chance to apologize to him, to hold him in his arms one last time, to tell him…

He drops to his knees at the coffin’s side, his shoulders shaking with silent tears. It’s his fault. He should have have heard Maverick out, should have been there for him like he’d promised he always would be. And now the love of his life has paid the price for his mistakes.

He clutches at the top of the coffin, pulling himself back to his feet. He can feel the pitying stares of the others on his back, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Open it,” he says. “Please, I must—” His voice breaks, and he takes a shuddering breath. “I need to say goodbye.”

There’s a brief moment of hesitation, and then the lid of the coffin is lifted and set aside. Slider nods at the others, who follow him several feet back. Leaving Ice alone with Maverick.

Ice tentatively reaches out to touch Maverick’s face, tracing the line of his jaw, running a hand through his hair like he’d done so many times before. But Maverick’s eyes are closed, and his lips don’t twitch upward into a smile or the smirk that always drives Ice crazy. His skin is colorless; his chest does not rise or fall. There’s no Maverick left there anymore. He’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” Ice whispers, soft enough that only Maverick can hear him. “I’m so sorry, Mav.”

Cradling the back of Maverick’s head, Ice leans down and presses their foreheads together; then, before his grief overcomes him completely, he closes the distance between them and steals a final kiss.

The moment their lips meet, a wave of magic whooshes outwards from the coffin, golden and pure, spreading across the land and through Ice’s very soul. He pulls back, stunned. He’s never seen or felt anything like that before, but everyone has heard the stories, and his theory is all but confirmed when Maverick suddenly  _ gasps, _ his eyes flying open.

Ice’s breath catches in his chest. “Maverick?”

Maverick’s eyes fall on him. “Ice,” he breathes, like his name is a magic word. “Is it really you?”

The laugh that tears free is wild, full of joy. “Yeah,” he says, and his smile threatens to split his face in two. “Yeah, Mav. It’s me.”

Ice helps Maverick sit up, wraps an arm around his back to support him as he regains his bearings, blinking groggily at the coffin he’s found himself in and the slack-jawed men gathered nearby. His eyes go wide as he turns to meet Ice’s gaze again. “You — you woke me up?”

“I did.”

Maverick inhales sharply, like he’d just been punched. “Do you know what that means?” he says breathlessly. “That you and I…that we’re—”

Ice manages a nod. “I hoped we were,” he admits. “From the moment we met.”

He half expects Maverick to make a joke out of that, but Maverick’s smile falters. “I thought…” He stops, swallows hard. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Ice can hear the unspoken words —  _ I thought you never wanted to see me again  _ — and his throat goes tight. “I’m sorry, Mav,” he says, and he has never meant an apology more. “For everything I said. But I’m here now. And if you’ll have me, I promise I’ll never leave you again.”

Maverick’s smile could rival the sun. “Like you have a choice,” he says, and then he smirks, as utterly irreverent as always. “We’re True Love, Kazansky. You’re stuck with me now.”

Ice kisses him once more, and damn it all if it’s not the best kiss he’s ever had. He feels  _ alive _ , exhilarated, ready to burst from joy, and yet…completely at peace. Like he would never be alone again.

There are still battles to be faced, Ice knows. Still wars to be won. But as long as he has Maverick by his side — his  _ True Love _ by his side — he knows he’ll be able to handle anything.

* * *

**…in a far away land…**

Another day, another job.

Bradley collapses into the front seat of his car, the back of his head still smarting with pain from when his target had tackled him to the ground. But he’d gotten the job done. He always does. And now all he has left to do is wait for the money to appear in his bank account and begin searching for another job.

He turns his phone on, and he gives a huff of surprise when he sees the time. It’s past midnight already. Happy thirty-second birthday to him. Not that he has anybody to spend it with.

Reaching into his pocket, Bradley pulls out a lighter and turns it on, watching the small flame flicker in the darkness of the car. Exhaling softly, he closes his eyes, makes a wish, and blows out the flame. It’s the same wish he’s made every year for as long as he can remember: that by this time next year, he won’t be so alone.

“If wishes were horses,” he mutters, and he puts the lighter away.

His phone suddenly buzzes with two notifications, one after the other. One is from his banking app, which notifies him that the money from his latest job is now in his savings account, and the other is an email from someone he doesn’t recognize. Bemused and interested, he clicks on it.

_ Mr. Bradshaw, _

_ We haven’t been introduced before, but my name is Monica Kendrick. I’ve been doing research on you and your work as a private investigator, and I have a job for you. If you’re still in Boston, the location is just a few hours away; I’ve attached the address at the bottom of this email, along with my contact information. _

_ Please write back at your earliest convenience. This job is more important than you might think, and I promise that it will be worth your while. _

Bradley’s brow furrows. Alright. It’s a bit stranger and a lot more vague than the emails he usually gets from potential clients, but color him intrigued. A few hours’ drive isn’t much, since he is still in Boston, and he’s curious about this job that this Monica Kendrick seems to think is so important.

He writes back to her that he’ll be there by morning, and then scrolls down to the bottom of the email, taking in the address she’d left.

“3551 Park Street,” Bradley reads aloud. “Storybrooke, Maine.”


	2. Welcome to Storybrooke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Enchanted Forest / fairy tale portions of this story will be told ‘flashback style’, so keep an eye out for the “Years Before the Curse” notes before some scenes. I hope you enjoy!

Six Months Before The Curse:

Their wedding is the grandest the kingdom has ever seen.

It doesn’t fit either of their personal tastes — Ice had wanted something private and intimate, and Maverick had been more than happy to go to the nearest cleric with a couple of witnesses and exchange rings and vows there — but after months of warfare and the successful ousting of the Wicked King, they’d both recognized that the subjects of Miramar needed something to celebrate. So invitations had been sent out to all the land, and now, finally, the big day had arrived.

The cleric preaches a sermon about the sanctity of marriage and leads them in their vows in front of the entire kingdom, but Maverick can barely remember his own lines. His mind and soul and heart are full of love for the man across from him — his  _ True Love, _ which he still can’t believe — and Maverick’s eyes brim with tears of joy when Ice slides his ring onto Maverick’s finger and promises to love him forever.

“And do you, Your Majesty, promise to take this man to be your husband and love him for all eternity?”

Maverick gives a watery laugh. “Yes,” he says, and slides his ring onto Ice’s finger. Ice squeezes his hand. His own eyes are filled with tears. “I do.”

“Then by the power vested in me by the Holy Order and the Kingdom of Miramar, I now pronounce you husbands for life.” The cleric steps back, smiling kindly at them. “You may seal your union with a kiss.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear that all day,” Maverick says, and Ice’s smile threatens to split his face as he closes the distance between them, and Maverick loses himself in their kiss. When they pull apart — minutes later, or hours, or several sunlit days — the crowds gathered around the dais are cheering and applauding, and they’re both grinning like it’s the best day of their lives. And for Maverick, it is.

If the ceremony had been incredible, the party afterwards is even better. The music from the orchestra fills the ballroom with life, and the dance floor is crowded with people twirling and laughing together. And then he and Ice take to the dance floor, hand in hand, announced by a court herald as  _ Their Royal Majesties King Peter and King Thomas of the Kingdom of Miramar _ — that’ll definitely take some getting used to, but he likes the sound of it — while the crew of the HMS  _ TOPGUN _ whoops and cheers them on. 

“So,” Ice says. His hands are on Maverick’s hips, and Maverick’s arms are looped loosely around Ice’s neck as they sway together to the music. “You’re looking handsome, Your Majesty.”

Maverick grins. He and Ice had both elected to wear their Royal Navy dress uniforms, though Ice’s has new epaulettes to show his rank of commander. “As are you, Your Majesty,” he says. “Enjoying the celebration?”

“It’s alright, I suppose.” Ice’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Though I’m more looking forward to getting you alone after everybody leaves.”

“I’ll tell everybody to leave right now, if you want,” Maverick says, only half kidding.

“I think that’s an abuse of your power.”

“Maybe a little,” Maverick concedes. It wouldn’t do to start his reign with the members of his court accusing him of becoming an absolute monarch. Half of them already dislike him for choosing to marry someone from the opposing kingdom, but hey. Better him than the Wicked King any day. “Then again…there’s nothing that says we can’t just…sneak away for a while. I bet the guys can come up with some kind of distraction.”

Ice smirks. “I like the way you think, Mitchell.”

“I know you do, Kazansky.”

The song finishes, and Maverick has just leaned up to kiss his husband properly when a burst of lightning suddenly flashes through the stained-glass windows, followed by a clap of thunder that sounds more like an explosion. And then the doors at the far end of the ballroom fly open to reveal none other than the Wicked King himself.

He’s just the same as he’d been a month ago, when Maverick last saw him. Cruelly handsome, straight-backed and proud. He’s dressed in black leather; upon his head sits a crown of twisted metal, and in his hand is a scepter that glows with purple energy. Maverick had hoped that the battle for Miramar and his subsequent exile would have weakened the man, but he looks just as strong as ever, if not stronger.

“Well,” he drawls. “It seems as though my invitation was misplaced.”

Maverick steps in front of his husband, the sword at his side already unsheathed and drawn. Around the room, he sees the crew of the HMS  _ TOPGUN _ doing the same. The palace guards make a belated start towards the Wicked King, but a wave of the scepter sends them flying across the room. “You’re not welcome here,” he snarls. “Be gone.”

His stepfather’s eyebrows arch. “Be gone?” he repeats, almost amused. “So uncouth, Peter. I only wish to pay my respects to you and your husband. To the new kings of Miramar.” He deftly summons a glass from a startled waiter’s tray, its contents somehow not splashing onto the floor. “And in honor of the celebration, I come with a gift.”

“We want nothing from you,” Maverick snaps, and only Ice’s firm hand on his shoulder keeps him from moving forward and introducing his stepfather to the blade of his sword.

“But you shall have it,” the Wicked King says. “My gift to you is today: this happy,  _ happy _ day. I suggest you enjoy it. For tomorrow shall bring the beginning of the end.” He finishes his glass of wine, and with a snap of his fingers banishes it into nothingness. “You’ve made your vows. Now I make mine.” His expression darkens. “Soon, everything you love, everything  _ all  _ of you love, will be taken from you. Forever. And out of your suffering will rise my victory.” His gaze lands on Maverick, who tries not to shudder. “And I shall destroy your happiness,” he says, his voice deceptively soft, “if it is the last thing I do.”

Maverick scoffs, hoping his bravado hides his terror. “And just how do you plan to do that?”

“With a curse, of course,” says the Wicked King, with a truly wicked smile. “A Dark Curse that will steal away your future, as foretold by the Ancient Prophecy. Your kingdom will shatter. Your lives as you know them will vanish. There will be no happy endings. None except my own.”

Ice, it seems, has had enough, because he snaps, “Guards!” and all of the guards that hadn’t been tossed aside by the king’s first spell go charging at the Wicked King, who disappears with a smirk into a plume of smoke. The guests are murmuring to each other, clearly frightened. All the joy from earlier has shattered like fragile glass.

Maverick sinks to the ground on his knees, his head swimming with prophecies and proclamations. Ice’s arms come around him, and he leans into the touch. “Mav,” he whispers. “Hey. It’ll be okay. We can fight him. We’ve done it before; we can do it again.”

“Can we?” Maverick repeats hollowly, and for that, Ice has no answer.

* * *

Bradley’s visited a lot of small towns in his work as a private investigator, and they all tend to be the same. Same home-grown mom-and-pop shops, same clean streets, same close-knit community mentality. Storybrooke, Maine, even though the buildings look older than most, is no different. Typical small town.

Everybody stares at his car as it putters down the street, and finally comes to a stop on Park Street. It’s been having engine problems ever since he left Massachusetts, and he prays to God it won’t die before he gets paid. “Hang in there, baby,” he says, patting the dashboard. “Don’t quit on me now.”

He gets out of the car and closes the door behind him, looking down at his phone to make sure he’s got the right address. 3551 Park Street is home to the Storybrooke Free Public Library, which is made from brick and mortar and — if he looks up — has a clock tower attached to the roof, looming over every other building in town. It’s stuck at 8:15, and he wonders why nobody’s gotten around to fixing it yet. Maybe it’s a historical landmark. Not that he’s planning on sticking around long enough for a history lesson.

As he approaches the library, he notices a woman sitting on the front steps, chewing on her thumbnail and staring off into space. She’s in her late twenties, if he had to guess, with long, flowing dark hair, and nothing on but a sweatshirt and jeans even though it’s a chilly morning. When she sees him, she jumps to her feet, looking at him like he’s some kind of miracle. “Are you him?” she asks, breathless. She sounds like she’s meeting a famous rock star, not the private investigator she’d hired the night before. “Are you Bradley Bradshaw?”

“That’s me,” he says. “And you’re Monica, right? Monica Kendrick?”

Monica Kendrick’s face twitches like she’d just tasted something awful, but that quickly fades into a smile. A real, genuine smile. “Call me Phoenix, please,” she says, and shakes his hand. She’s got a firm grip. “Wow, I…I can’t believe it’s you. You’re really here. And you look just like I thought you would.”

He’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, so he shrugs it off and gently extricates his hand from hers. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you too,” he says. “So. Should we…go inside, or…”

“Oh! Sure, yeah. Follow me.”

She turns on her heel and enters the library, which is empty barring a few children, their parents, and some senior citizens perusing the aisles. She puts a sign up on the reference desk that says BACK IN FIFTEEN and heads into a side room, and Bradley follows her up two flights of stairs and into a small apartment. As far as he can see, it’s only got a kitchen and a bedroom and a tiny bathroom, but it’s neat and clean, and it’s got a nice view. Better than some of the places he’s lived in by a long shot.

“Have a seat,” Monica Kendrick — Phoenix — says, clearing a stack of files off one of the chairs, and Bradley obligingly sits down. “Can…can I get you anything? Some coffee? Or I’ve got hot cocoa...”

“Hot chocolate would be great, thank you,” he says. His last meal was somewhere in Boston last night, and hot chocolate is just what the doctor ordered. “Oh, uh. With cinnamon, if you’ve got it.”

A few minutes later, Phoenix brings over two mugs of hot chocolate, along with some whipped cream, a tiny jar of cinnamon, and a plate of cookies. “I bake a lot,” she says, almost nervous, like she’s expecting him to judge her. “Help yourself. If you want.”

Bradley takes a cookie politely, but his first bite has him ready to toss aside the few lessons in manners he’s had and dump the entire plate down his throat. They’re fantastic, and so is the hot chocolate. “They’re great,” he says. “Thank you.”

Phoenix smiles at him, and takes a cookie for herself. “So,” she says. “I suppose you want to know why I hired you.”

She’s forward. He likes that. “That’d be nice to know, yeah.” He sets his mug down. “You did say it’d be worth my while.”

“It will be.” She sounds so serious that Bradley would be hard-pressed not to believe her. And then she reaches into her sweatshirt pocket and takes out an envelope, sliding it across the table to him. “This is a down payment,” she says. “You’ll get the rest once the job’s done.”

Bradley opens the envelope, and chokes on a mouthful of cookie. That is… That’s a lot. A lot of money. The thing is practically stuffed with twenty and fifty dollar bills, enough money to bathe in. Jesus Christ. If this is just a down payment, he’ll follow whoever she wants him to investigate all the way to the moon. “This is too much,” he manages once he finally stops coughing. “Miss Kendrick—”

“Phoenix. And trust me, Mr. Bradshaw. I said this would be worth your while, and this is one of those ways. Now.” She folds her hands together, sitting up straight like she means business. “I need you to find somebody for me.”

Finding somebody isn’t necessarily his area of expertise, but the money in his hands makes it difficult to complain. “Okay,” he says. “Who?”

Phoenix gets up and goes into her bedroom, returning with a photograph of a handsome Asian man in his early thirties, cleaning a bar counter with a rag. Bradley wonders if it’s her boyfriend, and tells himself that his curiosity is borne from purely professional reasons. “His name’s Nick Mendoza,” she says. “But most people call him Fritz. He disappeared two weeks ago, and nobody can tell me why. And I want you to find him.”

Bradley studies the photograph closely. He’s smiling, looks like he’s been caught mid-laugh. “Have you considered that maybe he just left town?”

“People don’t leave Storybrooke,” Phoenix says. “No one does.”

“Why not?”

Phoenix’s expression shutters, giving nothing away but confidence. “Find him,” she says, “and I’ll tell you.”

Bradley’s tempted to ask her to tell him now, as it could be relevant to the investigation, but then he remembers the literal  _ pile _ of money she’d given him and decides to keep his mouth shut. Fine. He’ll play by her rules. “Alright,” he says, and stands up. She immediately does the same. “I’ll do some digging. Was this taken at a bar? Is that where he works?”

Phoenix nods. She’s grinning, like she hadn’t expected him to go along with this. “Yes,” she says. “He works at the O Club, on the other side of town.”

The O Club. Alright. “Okay,” he says. “Like I said, I’ll do some digging and I’ll see what I can do. Do you want to meet up somewhere later to discuss things?”

“There’s a diner on Main Street,” Phoenix says. “3711 Main Street. It’s called Sherry’s. I’ll meet you there at two…and you can tell me what you’ve found.”

“Two o’clock,” Bradley repeats, committing the time and the place to memory. “I’ll see you there.”

* * *

Five Months Before The Curse:

Maverick and Ice’s scouts had returned from the far edges of the land with the Scroll of the Ancient Prophecy that morning, and by evening, the entire war council — consisting of Maverick, Ice, the crew of the HMS  _ TOPGUN, _ the scouts, and several court advisors — has convened in the castle to figure out exactly what they’re up against.

Maverick takes the scroll from one of the scouts, holding Ice’s hand under the table for support. “Thanks for coming, all of you,” he says, and ignores the court advisors wrinkling their noses at his impropriety. They don’t have time to waste on social niceties. He clears his throat and unfurls the scroll, staring at the ancient words without really absorbing them. “ _ From the hand of a King, a Dark Curse shall be cast … His heart blackened by evil, his revenge at long last.” _

He hesitates, staring at the next line. A cold feeling starts in his fingers, as if the paper is freezing.

_ “In another world, his foes shall reside … Though none of pure heart shall be allowed to thrive.”  _ He swallows. His mouth feels like it’s full of sand, but he presses on.  _ “They shall live without hope, in an endless sleep. For twenty-eight years, with no memories to keep.” _

“Sounds encouraging so far,” mutters Hollywood, and Wolfman smacks him on the arm.

_ “A Savior shall arrive to save all he holds dear … once he has reached his thirty-second year. And from this living slumber, the heroes shall wake … With True Love’s Kiss, the Curse shall break.” _

The room is so silent that a dropped pin would have sounded like a cannon firing. Finally, Slider says tentatively, “Well, it says the Curse can be broken by True Love’s Kiss. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It might not be our True Love that does it,” Maverick says, though it almost kills him to admit it. “Not if we’re cursed to ‘live without hope, in an endless sleep.’ What the hell does that mean, anyway?”

“We consulted a seer after retrieving the prophecy, Your Majesty,” says the head scout. After being called Maverick or Lieutenant Mitchell for so long, it’s strange to be called by his official title again. “He said that the Dark Curse will send its victims to another world, a Land Without Magic. And they…” She swallows. “And they won’t remember anything of their real lives. Not who they are, not who they love. Nothing.”

All the breath leaves his lungs, and he squeezes Ice’s hand just for something to anchor him to the world. Nothing. Once the Curse is cast — and they all know that it will be cast, for the Wicked King is not prone to exaggeration — they will remember nothing of their real lives for twenty-eight years. Maverick will look at Ice and not know him, and Ice will look at Maverick and not recognize him, and Maverick has no idea which option is more painful.

“But it can be broken,” Ice says. Somehow his voice is still steady, even as he clutches Maverick’s hand like a lifeline. “By the Savior.”

“Whoever the Savior is must be connected to you somehow, Maverick,” Merlin says. “Especially if you’re the target of the Curse.”

“You don’t know that he is—”

“Sure, Wolf,” Maverick says sardonically, because sarcasm is the only thing keeping him from breaking down completely right now. “My evil stepfather showed up at my wedding and told me to my face that he was going to cast a curse intended to destroy my happiness, but yeah. The Curse could be directed at anybody.”

“Right.” Wolfman ducks his head, blushing all the way up to the roots of his hair. Hollywood mutters something like  _ can’t believe they let you onto the war council,  _ but knocks his shoulder against Wolfman’s amicably. “Sorry, Mav. Forgot about that.”

_ Glad you could, _ Maverick wants to say, because Wolfman probably hasn’t been plagued by nightmares almost every night since the wedding, but he knows that’s not fair, and he keeps quiet. Ice brings Maverick’s hand up to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, right above his wedding ring. That helps a little.

Merlin’s got his hands loosely clasped together, lost in thought. “Do you think the Savior could be someone in this room?” he asks. “I mean, we’re all close with Mav.”

“Not unless someone in here is turning thirty-two in twenty-eight years,” Slider says wryly, and Maverick’s entire world grinds to a halt.

Twenty-eight years.

Thirty-second birthday.

_ Someone close to me. _

_ Bradley. _

* * *

The O Club is a bar on the other side of Storybrooke, near the pier and a couple of fancy restaurants. From the couple of passerby he’d asked, it’s the only bar in Storybrooke, and considering it’s not even noon yet, it’s dead empty; not a single car in the lot. Still, he goes in, figuring that there might be an employee in that he can ask — and sure enough, he’s right.

The man behind the bar is over six feet tall, in his mid-thirties, with brown hair cut short and chiseled features like he’s been carved from marble. Handsome, sure, but almost too handsome to be real. Seems serious and not the type to cross, but he smiles politely at Bradley when he comes over to the counter and takes a seat. “Can I get you started with something?”

“No thanks,” Bradley says. “I’m here on business.”

The man’s eyebrows go up. “Business at a bar at eleven thirty on a Monday morning?”

Bradley can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, I know how it looks,” he says. “But really, I’m here on business. I’m looking for Nick Mendoza. Heard he hasn’t been seen in a few days.”

“More like two weeks,” the man grouses, leaning on the counter. Hard to tell, but he looks relieved. So someone other than Phoenix had noticed that Fritz was gone. Interesting. “He took a week off, claiming there was some emergency, and here we are a week later and he still hasn’t come in. Won’t answer his phone or emails. Makes scheduling our shifts hell.”

“I bet,” he says. “Have you worked with him long?”

“Long as I can remember,” the man says with a laugh of his own. “He works under me, technically. I’m his manager.” He sticks his hand out, and Bradley shakes it. “Ronny Carter.”

“Bradley Bradshaw.”

“You a bounty hunter or something, Mr. Bradshaw?”

“Private investigator. I’ve got my license in my wallet, if you want to see.”

“I believe you,” Carter says. He leans forward, his chin in his hands and his elbows on the counter. “So who asked you to find Fritzie? Or is that classified?”

“Classified, unfortunately,” Bradley says easily, though part of him wonders what would happen if he brought up Phoenix’s name. “My client was worried about him. Do they have the right to be? Does Fritz take leaves of absence often? Do you think he left town?”

“That’s a lot of questions.”

“I’ve got more, but I figured I’d start with these.”

That makes Carter laugh. “You’ve got spunk, kid,” he says, and Bradley spares a moment to wonder why Carter had called him  _ kid _ when they’re practically the same age. “I guess your client would have reason to be worried. He’s not the type to up sticks and go anywhere. Overall nice guy, likes his job. Always comes in on time.”

“Could he have left Storybrooke?”

“Nah,” Carter says. “Nobody ever leaves Storybrooke.”

Carter says it like it’s as much of a fact as the sky being blue, just like Phoenix had, and that unnerves him slightly. “Why not?”

That seems to take Carter aback. “Well,” he begins, and then stops, almost confused. Like he’s forgotten the answer to a simple question on a math test. “Where’s there to go?”

“The whole outside world,” Bradley says, still unnerved. “Hell, Boston’s only four hours from here. You ever been to Boston?”

Carter shakes his head. “Why would I leave here?”

Bradley doesn’t have an answer for that, and before he can think about it too hard, decides to move onto his next question. “Does Fritz have any family in town? A boyfriend or girlfriend?”

Carter shrugs, appearing relieved to be back on familiar ground. “No family, no partner that I know about. He plays volleyball in the park most afternoons with the club team. You could try asking around there.”

Bradley makes a mental note of that, and hops off the barstool. “Thanks.”

“Good luck with the search,” Carter calls after him. “And tell Fritzie when you find him that he’s gonna be closing for the next month for pulling this stunt!”

* * *

The club volleyball team proves to be no help, and neither are Fritz’s neighbors. He supposes he could break into Fritz’s apartment and see what he can find there, but he doesn’t want to get into a tangle with local law enforcement, especially considering his track record. Besides, judging by the umpteen times he’d knocked, Nick Mendoza is not at home.

People don’t just vanish into thin air. And while he doesn’t really understand why the people in this town have an aversion to leaving, he believes them when they say Fritz wouldn’t have left town. So he must be around here somewhere. The question is where.

Around one o’clock, he stops by the general store on Maple Street — Jesus, even the street names around here scream ‘small town’ — to buy a sandwich, a bottle of water, and some toiletries. From the way this case is going, he’s going to have to stick around longer. Apparently there’s a reasonably affordable B&B around here, which is great because he’s sick of sleeping in the cramped backseat of his car. He’s debating between turkey and ham when he hears a voice behind him saying, “So how much longer do I have to keep this up?”

Bradley turns around, curious, just as a tall, dark-haired man enters the store, talking on his cell phone — and his jaw drops to his knees. He knows this man. He ought to, considering the fact that he’s been walking around town showing people his picture all day. Nick Mendoza, better known as Fritz.

“Yeah, well, it’s getting boring,” Fritz is saying. Drawling, more like, like every word takes its sweet time coming out of his mouth. Bradley inches closer. “No, it’s not the money. That’s not the problem. The problem is eventually I’m going to get fired from the O Club if I skip out, and I can’t afford to pay my rent and groceries without that job.” Another pause. “Okay, maybe you can, but you shouldn’t have to. I know you have the money.” He exhales. “Look, I’ve gotta go. Talk to you later. You can drop the money off in my mailbox. Gotta go. Bye.”

He hangs up and puts the phone in the pocket of his bomber jacket, and Bradley taps him on the shoulder. Watches Fritz’s face go pale when he realizes what’s going on. “Nick Mendoza, I presume,” he says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “I think the two of us should have a little chat.”

* * *

As The Curse Is Cast:

It had been four months since the war council had convened and Maverick realized that Bradley was destined to be the Savior. Four months since Carole and Bradley had officially moved into the castle for their own safety, Carole being introduced to the court as  _ Lady _ Carole Bradshaw, having suddenly come into a small but respectable fortune. During that time, they’d made deals with sorcerers and fairies and found a way to protect both Carole and Bradley. Their best carpenters fashioned an enchanted tree trunk into a vessel that could ward off any curse, and would transport Carole and her son to the Land Without Magic, where they would stay until Bradley turned thirty-two and would come and find them and break the curse.

And now the Wicked King and his army have arrived in Miramar, the Curse has been cast and is hurtling toward them at breakneck speed, and the four of them — Ice, Maverick, Carole, and a crying Bradley — are hiding in the main bedroom, on the other side of the castle from the magic wardrobe.

“At least we’re all together,” Carole whispers. Her face is specter-pale, but she holds her son close to her. Soothing his tears away even in the worst of times. “This isn’t such a bad way to go.”

The quiet resignation in her voice makes something inside Ice snap. No. It can’t end like this. Not after so many months of planning. “No,” he says firmly, and they all turn to look at him. “Not like this. We’re going to get you to the wardrobe.”

“What?” Maverick looks incredulous. “How?”

Ice takes a breath, praying his fear doesn’t show in his expression. “I’ll take them.”

“No.”

“Mav—”

“No!” Maverick crosses the room and stops in front of him, gripping his shoulders so tightly that it’s like he’s afraid Ice might disappear. “Absolutely not. Not without me.”

“It has to be without you. The King’s soldiers are trained to find you with their magic, not me. I’ll take them to the wardrobe and send them through—”

“While what? While I stay hidden in here like some frightened child? The hell I will!”

“We don’t have time to argue about this, Mav. We need to give them their best chance before the Curse takes that chance away from us.” At his side, Carole has picked up Bradley, balancing her son on her hip while he buries his face in her collarbone. “Besides.” He tries for a grin that flickers out before it can get far. “I’m better with a sword than you.”

“And I’m your  _ wingman,” _ Maverick snaps, not taking the bait. Bold and brave, all the way to the end. “And you’re my husband. I’m not leaving you.”

And Ice believes him. He can tell by the steel in Maverick’s spine and the set of his jaw that not even the threat of hell will remove Maverick from his side, will prevent him from coming with Ice to protect Carole and Bradley. And then the guards will find them, and Maverick will die at their hands or at the hands of the Wicked King. And Ice  _ cannot  _ let that happen.

The clamor in the halls is increasing in volume — yelling and shouting, cursing and swords clashing together. The  _ TOPGUN _ crew is around the castle somewhere, fighting the guards, but they can’t hold out forever. There is no more time to argue.

There’s only one thing left that he can do.

Ice cups his husband’s face in his hands and kisses him hard, one last time. He tries to memorize the feel of their lips together, the feel of him, the warmth of Maverick in his arms. He pulls back, just enough so that their eyes meet. “I love you,” he whispers.

The tension leaves Maverick’s body slightly. His grip on Ice’s shoulders loosens, and he even manages a smile. “I love you too.”

And so Maverick isn’t expecting it when Ice shoves Maverick away from him, as hard as he can. Maverick stumbles backwards, falling to the floor with a cry, and Ice pushes Carole and Bradley out the door of their bedroom and follows them, slamming the door shut and locking it behind him. The wood muffles the sound of Maverick’s voice as he calls out to Ice — curses him out, yells his name, begs him to let him out, to let him come with — but Ice can’t. There isn’t much in life that he can give Maverick Mitchell, but he can give him this.

_ I’ll see you on the other side, Mav. I promise. _

With Carole at his side (and Bradley in her arms) and his sword drawn, Ice races down the stairs and out into another hallway, ducking into side rooms and different corridors at the slightest noise. Somehow, miracle of miracles, they make it to Bradley’s room — but of course their luck doesn’t hold out, because it’s guarded by a group of the Wicked King’s knights.

Carole screams, and Ice jumps into the fray. He fights the next, and the next: slashing, parrying, cutting, thrusting, his sword a desperate blur. There’s no time to think, only to react —  _ won’t Mav be proud _ — and he cuts them down, breathing heavily and ignoring the blows they land on him. He won’t let them kill his nephew and his sister-in-law. He’ll die first.

He slams his shoulder against the door, which bursts open, and then joins Carole and Bradley inside, barricading the door with a desk that leaves the floor heavily scraped. The wardrobe stands tall in the corner of the room, its wood somehow gleaming in the light, and Carole runs to it. Ice opens the door for her, kisses her on the cheek. “Keep each other safe,” he says, and he ruffles Bradley’s hair. “Keep an eye on your mom, kid.”

Bradley nods. He’s not crying anymore; he just looks resolute. “I will, Uncle Ice.”

“Good,” Ice says hoarsely. “Good boy.” Tears well up in his eyes, and he blinks them aside. “See you in twenty-eight years.”

Carole smiles tearfully at him. “See you then.”

He closes the door. Wipes his tears away. Waits ten seconds. And opens the door again.

But instead of an empty wardrobe, Carole and Bradley are standing there, looking confused and terrified. “It didn’t work,” Carole whispers. “Why didn’t it work?”

He tries again, and again, but it doesn’t work. And then the answer hits him with enough force that he curses, not caring that Bradley’s four years old and impressionable. “They screwed us over,” he says, stunned at their naivete. “We asked for a vessel that could protect the Savior, but we didn’t think to…” He swallows hard, wanting to throw up. How could they have been so  _ stupid? _ “The wardrobe can only take one.” 

Carole looks like she wants to break down sobbing, but somehow, she stands tall. She steps out of the wardrobe, sets Bradley down there instead. She smooths his hair back, tears streaming down her face, and kisses him on the forehead. “I love you so much, my baby,” she whispers. She gives him a drawstring bag that hangs nearby, which Ice knows contains food and a blanket. “I love you, Bradley Bradshaw. Find us.”

She closes the door on her son. Waits ten seconds. And when she opens the door again, the gleam of the wood has faded, and Bradley Bradshaw is nowhere to be found.

“Carole,” Ice says. He wants nothing more than to give Carole a moment to pull herself together, but that’s not a luxury they can afford right now. “Carole. Come on. Get up. We have to go, we have to get—”

_ “The King and the Savior — where are they? Where’d they go?” _

_ “In there!” _

And Ice makes another snap decision. “Stay here,” he says, and draws his sword again. “I’ll protect you.”

Before she can protest, Ice moves the desk away from the door and steps back into the hallway. He doesn’t move away from the door until he hears the scrape of wood against wood — the sound of the desk legs scraping the floor — and knows Carole is as protected as she can be right now. That has to be enough.

He rejoins the fray in the hall like he had never left, but these knights are much more skilled than the ones he’d faced mere moments before. He’s tired and running on nothing but terror and adrenaline, but he still gives it everything he has: striking and parrying,  _ protect protect protect— _

A blade rakes across his ribcage, and he grunts in pain. Another blow lands on his shoulder, sharp and stinging, and he turns the wrong way — and the opening is enough for the knight behind him to grab him by the hair while the knight in front of him drives their sword right into Ice’s abdomen.

He’d scream if he had the words for it, but all he can do once the knight yanks the sword out of him is fall to his knees, collapsing onto his side, and then onto his back. The blood is pulsing out of the wound faster than he’d thought possible, and everything is growing blurry. Gray, and blurry. Even the noise of swords clashing in the distance is fading away.

He’s dying.

But Carole is safe. Bradley made it to the Land Without Magic. And while Maverick is no doubt angry with him for the stunt he’d pulled earlier, he’s safe too. They’re all going to be okay. He…might not be. But he can live with that. 

Ice’s eyes flutter shut just as the knights step away from him, and everything goes dark.

* * *

Phoenix is waiting for him a few buildings down from the diner on Main Street, rocking back and forth on her heels with her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. “Hey!” she says, smiling. “Glad you found the place alright. What’d you find out?”

Bradley stops in front of her. “What did I find out?” he repeats. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides in an effort to keep them from trembling. “Let’s see. I found out that Nick Mendoza isn’t actually missing. I found out that you paid him to pretend he was, and I found out that you were planning to keep up the ruse indefinitely. I hope to God you didn’t drag me all the way here from Boston just to waste my time, so how about you cut the crap and tell me what the  _ hell _ is going on here?”

Phoenix’s face had gone steadily paler during Bradley’s impassioned speech, but at his question, she stands straight and proud, like she’s about to march into battle. “Alright,” she says quietly. “You figured me out. I said I’d explain more once you found him, and you have. So I will.”

“Oh,” Bradley says. He’d kind of expected her to deny it all. “Uh, good. So explain.”

“Not here,” she says. “Not in public. Come back to the library with me and I’ll—”

“The hell I will. Explain here or I’m walking away right now.”

Fear flickers in her eyes briefly before it disappears, replaced with a sort of defiant determination. “Fine,” she says. “This town is under a curse. Every person here, every person you’ve seen today, is a fairytale character. They’re all under a curse to keep them from remembering their old lives, and the only person who can break it is you.”

The best part about it is that she looks completely serious. There’s no sign she’s lying, no hint that she’s messing with him. She’s just as frank as she’s been since she handed him a mug of hot cocoa and an envelope stuffed with cash in her kitchen that morning, and all Bradley can do is gape. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Phoenix says.

He has to splutter for several seconds before coherent words start coming out again. “Yeah, I heard you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re out of your mind.”

Phoenix’s expression darkens. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ call me crazy, Bradley Bradshaw. I’m not lying to you. Look at me.” She steps closer to him, and even though she’s a good six inches shorter than him, he still feels engulfed by her presence. She lifts her chin. “You’re a PI. You know what people look like when they’re lying. Am I lying?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Feels a hot blush working its way up his neck, because he can tell that she really does believe whatever crap she’s shoveling. “Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true,” he says. “And anyway, fairy tales aren’t real. What you believe is impossible.”

Phoenix raises her eyebrows. “Is it?” she retorts. “What’ve you seen today, Mr. Bradshaw? Haven’t you been wondering why the buildings here look so old? Why the clock tower is broken? Why nobody you’ve talked to can remember how long they’ve been here — and why nobody ever leaves town?”

Bradley wants to strike back, but then he thinks of his conversations with Ronny Carter, with the volleyball team in the park. None of them had given him straight answers on how long they’d lived here, or how long they’d known Fritz. And they’d all seemed dazed when he brought up the idea of leaving Storybrooke. Almost as if the idea had never occurred to them at all. “It’s a small town,” he manages. “It’s…homey. Quaint. That’s why no one ever wants to leave.”

“No,” Phoenix says simply. “They don’t want to leave because they  _ can’t. _ That’s the problem. The curse is keeping them here. It’s kept them here for twenty-eight years. And I called you here to break it.”

“But why  _ me?” _ The words tear out of him before he can stop them. He can’t believe he’s even going along with this. “Why me, Phoenix?”

“Because you’re the Savior, Bradley,” she says. “You were prophecized to break the curse, and you were prophecized to come here on your thirty-second birthday.” She tilts her head. “That’s today, isn’t it?” His lack of an answer seems to be answer enough, and she says, “I know you’re meant to do this.”

“No you don’t.” He feels like he’s going to faint. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“No?” she says. “I know you were found wandering in a forest not far from here when you were four years old, with nothing but a drawstring bag with a blanket and some food inside. I know you’ve never been able to find proof you had a family. Probably bounced from foster home to foster home until you aged out of the system. You’ve got an unerring sense of truth and justice that makes you so good at your job. I think that’s enough to go on.”

“You could have found that out about me when you were hiring me,” Bradley says. He would have been less rocked to the core if she’d stabbed him. “There are newspaper articles about me being found as a little kid.”

“But about you being unable to find your family? How would I know that?”

God, why does she have to sound so  _ logical _ when she’s talking about the craziest idea Bradley’s ever heard in his life?

“You don’t believe me,” Phoenix says. “I don’t blame you. It took me a long time to come to terms with the idea too. I needed proof, and I got it. I’ll give you proof too.” She nods at the diner down the street. “Come in the diner with me. And if afterwards you aren’t convinced that you’re the Savior, I’ll give you the rest of the money and you can go on your merry way.”

She’s throwing a challenge his way, and he’s never been one to back down from a challenge. “Fine,” he says. It’s not like she can actually prove it, anyways. “Lead the way.”

* * *

As The Curse Is Cast:

The castle is quiet, and that’s how Maverick knows something is horribly wrong.

It had taken him ten minutes to break down the door of his bedroom, and by the time he’d arrived to join the fray, there was no longer any fray to join. Bodies, dead and dying — bodies of the Wicked King’s knights, bodies of the castle’s servants and royal guard — are strewn on the floor, and Maverick’s heart threatens to choke him as he sprints toward Bradley’s room. Toward his sister, his nephew, and his husband.

The door to Bradley’s room has been broken down, and the furniture has been destroyed. Carole is nowhere to be found, and neither is Bradley. And there in the hall outside the room, lying spread-eagled on the floor with blood staining his white shirt crimson, is Ice.

“No!” Maverick skids across the floor on his knees, pulling his husband onto his lap. Ice does not stir, does not wake up. His shirt is drenched with blood, and his skin is ashen, and Maverick dissolves into sobs. “No. No, no, Ice. Please don’t do this. Come back to me, Ice,  _ please.” _ His voice breaks. His tears drip onto his husband’s lifeless face. “Please don’t leave me. I love you.”

_ I love you, _ Maverick thinks, his shoulders heaving with sobs,  _ I love you, I love you, _ as if the words alone could bring Ice back — and then the answer strikes him like a bolt of lightning. Inspired, Maverick leans down and kisses him.

But nothing happens.

Maverick kisses Ice again, harder this time, pouring all of his love and need and desperate hope into the kiss, yet still nothing happens. The wound is still bleeding, and Ice does not move or open his eyes, and Maverick feels like he might shake apart from terror and dismay. He doesn’t understand; they share True Love, the kiss should have worked, it should have—

“Don’t worry, Peter.” The Wicked King is strolling down the hall like he owns the place, and a satisfied smile spreads across his face when he stops in front of Maverick. “In a few minutes you won’t even remember you knew him, let alone loved him.”

Maverick swallows back another sob, grits his teeth. “Why,” he says, and it comes out more like a snarl. “Why did you do this?”

“Because I can,” the Wicked King replies, like it’s as simple as that. He draws closer to Maverick, and Maverick in turn clutches Ice close to him; he’s not about to let his evil bastard of a stepfather get anywhere near his husband. Two knights enter the room, and the Wicked King addresses them without turning away from Maverick. “The child?”

“Gone.”

The Wicked King whirls around.  _ “What?” _

The knight swallows hard, like they know their next words are a death sentence. “He’s gone, Your Majesty. There was a woman in there; his mother. She put him in the wardrobe, and now he’s nowhere to be found.”

For the first time in ages, Maverick feels himself relax. Bradley got away. He’s safe, wherever he is, and that means that their plans hadn’t been for naught. It had all been worth it. “You’re going to lose,” he tells the Wicked King. “He’ll come back someday, and he’ll defeat you and break your Curse. I know it.”

The Wicked King does not smile. “We’ll see about that.”

The room begins to shake, and the ceiling fissures and cracks, tendrils of purple energy surrounding them, drowning the world in darkness. The Curse. It had arrived at last, and there’s no stopping it now.

Maverick pulls Ice close to him, trying to shield him even though he knows it’s fruitless. Kisses him one last time. “I love you,” he whispers. “Find me.”

And then everything disappears.

* * *

The bell above the door trills as he and Phoenix enter the diner. Bradley doesn’t flinch at the sudden noise, nor at the questioning glances of the handful of people who look his way.  _ A cursed town probably doesn’t get a lot of visitors,  _ he thinks, and then wants to hit himself. Why is he even entertaining this? Why is he even still  _ here?  _ He should have walked off with the money the second she started talking about curses and fairy tales and Saviors. Goddamn him and his curiosity.

“I said I was sorry, Charlie—”

“You didn’t say anything! I got nothing from you except a bouquet of yellow carnations and a note that said  _ I’m sorry, please forgive me _ because you were too afraid to tell me that in person!”

Bradley’s attention swings to the middle of the diner, where a man and a woman are in the middle of a fierce argument. The woman (Charlie) is poised and polished, her blonde hair in a bun, wearing a pantsuit and heels so high that Bradley had no idea how she had managed to walk in them. The man beside her is dark-haired and green-eyed, in his early thirties. The pants and blazer he’s wearing look like they’ve seen better days; so does he. He looks exhausted, like he might pass out right there in the diner, but he stands his ground.

“For the hundredth time, I had parent-teacher conferences and tests to grade, and that’s why I was home late! You’re the one who scheduled our anniversary dinner two weeks after our anniversary because you were going out with friends the night of!”

“Well, you could have called me to say—”

“I did call you! It’s not my fault you didn’t check your phone until you got home!”

Charlie’s just reared up to retort when a waitress comes bustling over from behind the counter. She’s got short blond hair in a pixie cut, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she’s wearing a dirty apron over jeans and black shirt. Kind-looking, but frazzled. “Pete, Charlie,” she says once she’s reached them. “If you’re going to fight, take it outside. I don’t want you disturbing the lunch rush.”

“We aren’t fighting,” Charlie says, thought Bradley doesn’t know who she thinks she’s kidding. She adjusts the collar of her jacket while she glances around, as if making sure nobody she knows is there. “I’m going back to work. Pete, we’ll continue this tonight.” And then she walks past Phoenix and Bradley and out of the diner, the door slamming shut behind her.

“Sorry, Susan,” the man — Pete — says. He scrubs a hand down his face, sighing. The golden wedding band on his ring finger gleams in the fluorescent lights, and he looks at it like it’s a shackle, not a symbol of eternal love. “We’re…having a rough time right now.”

“That’s alright, honey,” Susan says, and she even sounds like she means it. From the soft way she’s looking at him, Bradley can tell they’re friends. “Can I get you anything before you head back to school?”

“No, I’ve…lost my appetite. I’ll get something from the vending machines before my meeting starts.”

“Alright.” Susan doesn’t look like she approves, but she nods anyway. “See you later.”

Pete turns around, but he clearly hadn’t expected anyone to be behind him because he walks straight into Phoenix and Bradley. He mutters an apology in Phoenix’s direction before walking out the door, and Bradley doesn’t pay him much attention.

“Hey there, Monica,” says Susan, smiling warmly in Phoenix’s direction. “What brings you by? You want a booth or a table?”

“Nah, I’m just showing a friend around town,” says Phoenix. Alright, so they aren’t sticking around. “Had to bring him by the diner so he could meet the nicest person in Storybrooke.”

“Oh, you’re sweet.” Susan looks over at Bradley for the first time, and something strange flickers over her face. “I’m sorry, I…have we met before? You look familiar.”

“I don’t think so, sorry,” Bradley says, but he kind of wishes that weren’t the case. “It’s nice to meet you, though. I’m Bradley Bradshaw.”

“Susan Hyra. Nice to meet you.” She smiles at him once more before heading over to another table, calling over her shoulder, “Hope you enjoy your time in Storybrooke!”

They’ve barely left the diner when Phoenix grabs Bradley by the wrist. “So?” she says excitedly. “Did you recognize her?”

“Recognize who?”

“Susan,” she says impatiently. “The waitress. Did you recognize her?”

“What? No, of course not; why would I?”

“Because she’s your mom,” Phoenix says, casual as can be, and Bradley almost chokes on his own tongue.

_ “What?” _

“She’s your mother, Bradley. That’s your proof, that’s why I took you in there. That’s why you were never able to find your family. They were here all along.”

_ She’s insane. This whole thing is insane. _ “Right,” he says, his voice fairly dripping with sarcasm. “And I suppose that customer was my father.”

“Actually, he’s your uncle,” Phoenix says. “And he’s not even supposed to be married to Charlie; his husband’s in a coma at the hospital.”

“A coma at the hospital,” Bradley repeats. “Alright, that’s it. I’m out of here.”

“What?! No! No, you can’t!”

“Watch me.”

He tears his wrist out of her grip and sets off down the street, already cursing whatever instinct had made him accept Phoenix’s offer in the first place, but she chases him down before he can get far, pulling him into a secluded alley. “Look, I know it sounds crazy—”

“Oh, you think?”

“—but this is all real. I swear to you, it is. Susan is your mother, and Mr. Matthews is your uncle. They’re your family. It’s all in the Book.”

That pulls him up short. “What book?”

Phoenix reaches into her knapsack and pulls out a thick, leather-bound book the size of a telephone directory. There’s no author, but the title reads  _ Once Upon A Time _ in fancy, flowing script. “This is the Book,” she says, and this time he can hear that the word is capitalized, like a proper noun. She flips through the pages and stops on a watercolor illustration of a woman with long blond hair and a boy of four or five next to a wooden wardrobe, their expressions tearfully frantic. “That’s you. And that’s your mother.”

Bradley opens his mouth to argue, but as he examines the illustration further, all of his arguments shrivel up and die in his throat. The artwork isn’t that good, and the features are a little cartoonish, but even he can see the resemblance between the picture and the woman in the diner. And the little boy: he had the same hair as Bradley, the same eye color…

“Twenty-eight years ago, the Wicked King cast a horrible curse to exact revenge on his stepson — your uncle — and on everyone else he believed had slighted him,” Phoenix says, and Bradley can’t help but hang on her every word. “Your mother sent you through the wardrobe to another world, to this world, to protect you. I’ve spent the last ten years trying to find you, Bradley Bradshaw. You’re the only one who can break this curse.”


	3. For Here or To Go?

Four Years Before The Curse:

The birth had come two weeks before she’d expected, for which Carole is beyond grateful. Goose had only been able to get a month’s leave before he’d sail off for the next eight months, and now he gets to be here for the birth of his child. It takes several hours of screaming and squeezing the life out of Goose’s hand (and an endless amount of patience from the midwife, who’s a saint as far as Carole is concerned), but it’s all worth it when the pressure eases and she hears the healthy wailing of her newborn son.

“He’s beautiful,” Carole whispers, cradling her son in her arms. He’s sleeping now, wrapped in a warm blue blanket that Goose’s mother had knit for them — a blanket that, to her surprise, did not end up matching her son’s eyes. She and Goose had assumed their baby would inherit Carole’s blue eyes, but instead his eyes are a warm brown, like his father’s. “He’s got your eyes.”

“And my lungs, if the screaming’s any indication,” Goose says, and Carole laughs. He moves closer to her, putting an arm over her shoulders, and she leans into the touch. “He’s going to be a great kid. I can tell.” His smile fades. “I’m just sorry I won’t be around as much as I want to be.”

“You’ll be around as much as you can,” Carole says. They’ve had this conversation many times before, and she won’t make her husband give up his position in the Navy, not after he’d worked so long to get an officer’s commission. “You’ll write, you’ll visit on leave, we’ll come and visit you. And our son will love you no matter what.”

Goose kisses her on the forehead. “Speaking of our son,” he says. “Have you come up with a name yet?”

“I have.” The baby in her arms makes a soft noise in his sleep, and she brushes a finger down his cheek. “Bradley.”

“Bradley Bradshaw,” Goose repeats, smiling. “I like it.”

Carole smiles back. “So do I.”

* * *

He should have left. He should be halfway back to Boston by now, leaving this crazy town and its even crazier inhabitants behind until they fade into a weird maybe-dream, maybe-memory in the back of his head. After their showdown in the alley outside the diner, Phoenix had given him the rest of the money from the job, and it’s enough that he won’t be short on rent for at least six months. The job is done. He should be gone.

But somehow, for whatever reason, Bradley is still here. He’d gotten a room at the bed and breakfast — which is stylish in an old-fashioned way, if a little dusty — and is now laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with Phoenix’s words ricocheting in his head like a bullet in a metal box. Beside him is the knapsack with all of his belongings, the toiletries he’d bought at the store, and the Book. Phoenix had thrust it into his hands, asking him to look for himself, and he hadn’t been able to refuse her. 

This is all crazy. No sane person could possibly believe that their town is populated by fairy tale characters who are under a curse — not to mention that  _ he’s  _ supposed to be some kind of savior that’s related to said fairy tale characters. He doesn’t have any family; the past twenty-eight years have hammered that lesson well and truly home.

And Phoenix had known that. She must have found those newspaper articles about him —  _ Four Year Old Boy Found Wandering In Forest,  _ and  _ Still No Leads on Parents of Lost Four Year Old Boy,  _ articles that contained his only childhood photos. She’d claimed that the reason he’d never been able to find any of his family is because they’ve been here, under a curse, this entire time. Even if he  _ did _ believe her, there’s no way Susan the waitress is his mother; hell, she looks the same age as him.

_ Then again, if the curse has kept her frozen in time here for twenty-eight years… _

Bradley groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. He can’t seriously be entertaining this. Not without some solid factual evidence — and since there’s no way he’ll be able to find any, he’ll be on his way, and then he’ll never have to think about this place or this job or Phoenix Kendrick ever again.

* * *

Monday nights are usually slow at the diner, since the owner’s recipe for chicken pot pie leaves a lot to be desired, so Susan doesn’t have much to do besides fetching the regulars their drinks and meals, which is hard enough since one of the other waitresses called in sick.

Around seven thirty, she switches places with Sherry and takes the counter, and the front door opens to reveal the new man in town, Monica Kendrick’s friend. Heads turn as he walks through the diner — understandable, since she can’t even remember the last time there was somebody new in town — and takes a seat at the end of the bar. She lets him peruse the menu for a couple minutes while she tends to Dr. Sink and the sheriff, and then approaches him. “Hey there,” she says. “What can I get for you?”

He looks up, his brow furrowed. “What?”

“To eat,” she clarifies. “Or to drink, to start. What can I get for you?”

“Oh,” he says, realization dawning. “Oh, right. Uh, what’s the daily special?”

“Chicken pot pie,” Susan says, and leans in and lowers her voice. “But it’s not all that special.”

The corner of his mouth quirks upward. “What would you recommend?”

“Can’t go wrong with a burger and fries, in my opinion.”

“I’ll take a burger and fries, then. Oh, and hot chocolate if you have it. With whipped cream and cinnamon.”

She pauses halfway through the motion of taking out her trusty notepad. “Whipped cream and cinnamon?”

“Yeah, I know, it’s weird.” He shakes his head, as if apologizing for his taste, but Susan leans forward on the counter, her job forgotten.

“No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just — I like cinnamon and whipped cream on my hot chocolate too. I didn’t know others did too.” She smiles at him, and he smiles back — but there’s something off about it, almost like he’s lost in thought. Or maybe nervous. Then again, what’s there to be nervous about? “I guess great minds think alike.”

“Right,” he says. “Guess so.”

Susan smiles. “Will that be for here or to go?”

Something passes over his face, too quickly for her to analyze. It takes several moments for him to answer. “For here,” he says. “Please.”

Susan finishes writing his order and gives it to the cook, and starts making his hot chocolate, with plenty of whipped cream and cinnamon. She has a feeling that Monica’s friend — Bradley, that’s his name — has a sweet tooth, if he’s anything like her. The late evening rush comes in right when Bradley’s meal is done, so she doesn’t get to see if he enjoys it or not, but once she’s gotten everyone at the counter taken care of, she heads back over to take away his empty plate. “Can I interest you in some dessert tonight?”

Bradley shakes his head. She wonders why Monica’s not with him. Maybe she’s having dinner with her father tonight and couldn’t bring Bradley with her. “I’m alright, thanks,” he says. “Just the bill.”

“Sure.” She takes his credit card and swipes it through, and when she hands him his bill, she notices that he’s watching her. “Are you alright?”

He startles as if woken from a dream. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, I — how long have you worked here?”

Oh God, she hopes this isn’t a complaint against her service. She’d been perfectly friendly! And if she loses her job, there’s no way she’ll be able to make rent this month. She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, her mind goes utterly and completely blank — the answer missing as if someone had clipped it out of a newspaper. “I…I don’t know,” she says. “A while. Years, I guess.”

“But you don’t know the exact amount of time?”

“I…no. I guess I don’t.” She’d started working here not long after her husband died, she knows that, but she can’t even remember how long ago that had been now.  _ I must be more stressed than I thought. It’ll come to me later. _ “But you know, that’s just life. Things get hazy.”

“Right,” Bradley says. He doesn’t look satisfied by her answer; if anything, he looks even more confused. “I guess so.” He signs his bill and slides it over to her, rising from his seat. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Susan, please.”

“Susan,” he says, and her name sounds strange on his tongue, like he should be calling her something else. But that’s just ridiculous. Everyone around here calls her Susan — except her late husband, who called her Susie. “Thanks.”

He leaves the diner without looking back, and Sherry sidles up to her, grabbing a handful of napkins and a new notepad from under the counter. “Is that Monica’s friend?” she asks. “What’s his name?”

“Bradley,” Susan says, feeling strange. “Bradley — Bradshaw, I think.”

“Bradley,” Sherry repeats, wrinkling her nose slightly. “That’s an old-fashioned name.”

Susan shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, mostly to herself. “I kinda like it.”

* * *

Two Years Before The Curse:

It’s a warm summer day, so Carole takes him outside with her so they can do the gardening together. Bradley’s two now, and he loves helping her, and while she plants new seeds, he pulls weeds and sings the song Goose taught him from his early days in the Navy. She misses Goose. Maybe she’ll write him another letter tonight.

“Mama!”

Carole hums. “Yes, baby?”

“Mama, look! It’s Papa!”

Carole’s heart stops cold before she even turns around, squinting into the distance. Is it — no, no it’s not. There is someone at the fence surrounding their cottage, wearing a Royal Navy uniform, but it’s not her husband. Still, she manages a welcoming smile for the man that is there. “Maverick,” she greets, rising and lifting Bradley so he rests on her hip. She crosses to the fence, opening the gate so he can come in. “Bradley, you remember your Uncle Mav, don’t you?”

Bradley grins, waving merrily at him. “Hello, Unca Mav!”

Maverick tries for a smile that flickers out before it can get far. “Hello, Bradley.” To her, he says, “Hello, Carole. It’s been a while.”

“That’s for sure,” she says with a laugh. “Is Goose with you?”

Maverick swallows hard. It’s then that she notices how tight his jaw is, how his eyes are rimmed red. “Carole,” he says. His voice is barely a rasp. “I’m sorry.”

Her smile vanishes, and everything inside her goes cold. She sets down her son, and he happily toddles over to his pile of weeds and begins playing with them again. “Where’s Goose?”

Maverick shudders. His face threatens to crumple, but his fists clench at his sides and he takes a long, shaky breath. “Goose is,” he starts, then stops, like he can’t bring himself to continue.

And Carole knows without him having to say any more.

Hot tears spill down her cheeks, and she embraces the man Goose had loved like a younger brother, clinging to him, and letting him cling to her in return. “He loved serving with you, Maverick,” she whispers. She prays Bradley isn’t paying attention. The two of them will explain it to him later, when they can do so without crying. “He would have served anyway, without you.” Something half laugh, half sob tears free from her throat. “He’d have hated it, but he would have done it.”

They stay in that embrace for a long, long time.

* * *

Bradley had hoped that talking to Susan would prove once and for all that this curse theory of Phoenix’s is bullshit, but it had just left him more confused and uncertain than ever. Which is probably why he’s still awake several hours later, long after he should have gone to bed, looking through the Book. He doesn’t recognize any of the fairy tales in them, though that doesn’t mean anything; he hadn’t exactly had anybody willing to read fairy tales to him as a child.

Still, he’s never heard of fairy tale characters with names like Maverick, Iceman, or Viper. Or Goose, who is (according to Phoenix’s theory) his father. There’s a few watercolor illustrations of him, and he looks eerily similar to Bradley, wispy blond hair and brown eyes and mustache and all. This whole thing is just  _ creepy. _

Unnerved, Bradley flips ahead to the end of the book, to the watercolor illustrations that Phoenix had shown him earlier that afternoon, and takes in the story told on the opposite page.

_ They had not planned for this. The wardrobe was supposed to take her and her son to safety, so they could wait out the Curse to End All Curses and come to free everyone from the Wicked King, but it was not to be. With tears in her eyes, Carole placed her young son inside the wardrobe. “I love you, Bradley Bradshaw,” she said, and kissed him on the forehead. “Find us.” _

_ Carole closed the door to the wardrobe, knowing that this would be the last time she would see her beloved baby boy for twenty-eight years. But deep down, Carole knew that this was the only way. She had to let her son go in order to save him. She also knew that one day, Bradley would return to save them all. _

Bradley’s heart is in his throat. That’s his name. His name is in the story book.  _ No wonder Phoenix knew how to track me down,  _ he thinks, and a noise tears out of his throat that’s half sob, half hysterical laugh. But it can’t really be  _ him. _ Maybe his parents had read the same story and named him accordingly, after this mysterious Savior child.

But the kid is holding the same knapsack they found him with twenty-eight years ago. Even now, he remembers how the police were stunned because it had looked so old-fashioned, like something out of a book. And the same clothes, and the same face and eyes and hair color—

_ No. This is crazy. I can’t believe this. _

He flips back to the beginning, to the story outlining the Savior’s birth, and early years as a child, and stares without really seeing at the illustrations of an infant wrapped in a warm blue blanket — the same color of the blanket in his backpack, one of his most prized possessions. At the illustration of a toddler playing in a garden while Carole and Maverick (his uncle, apparently, and the runaway prince of Miramar) embrace. At the caption beneath the illustration, denoting the lyrics to a song that Goose had once sang to his son.  _ You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain / Too much love drives a man insane / You broke my will, oh what a thrill— _

“Goodness gracious, great balls of fire,” Bradley whispers, his heart crawling up his throat to choke him. He’d sang that song as a little kid. His very first foster parents had snapped at him and punished him for singing it too many times, and he’d eventually forgotten all about that song. And here it is now, in a strange book, in an even stranger town.

How can the Book include details like that? The only logical explanation is that none of this is real, but it all makes too much sense. Common sense is screaming at him that this curse thing is all a giant hoax or a practical joke, even if Phoenix believes in it wholeheartedly. It’s not possible. He’s no Savior, and his family can’t be heroes from some weird fairy tale. This can’t be real.

Can it?

* * *

Four Months, Two Weeks Before The Curse:

After putting Bradley to bed, Carole’s looking forward to spending a few hours knitting in front of the fire, but the knock comes before she even sits down in her favorite chair. Sighing, she casts her knitting aside and rises to answer the door. She doesn’t recognize the trio of soldiers on the other end — their uniforms aren’t of the Fallon Royal Navy, nor of Miramar’s. They’re dressed in black uniforms, as dark as midnight, and the look in the first man’s eyes sends a cold shiver down her spine. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Carole Bradshaw?”

She frowns, now even more tense. “Yes,” she says slowly. Then, her fear overriding her urge to be polite, says, “What do you want?”

“Your son, of course.”

_ “What?” _ She feels the color drain from her face. Is this a nightmare? This can’t possibly be happening. “You can’t take my son!”

“We can,” says the first soldier, his grin full of teeth and vicious victory. “By the order of King Edward. Bring him now, or we will take him by force.”

“Not if I can help it, you won’t!”

Carole slams the door in his face, scrambling backwards in terror as the door trembles on its hinges. Soon they’ll break the door down and take Bradley away from her — no. The hell they will. She won’t let  _ anyone  _ put their hands on her son. Not while she lives.

She runs to the fireplace, where a sword hangs on the wall next to the poker. Goose’s sword. He’d taught her a thing or two, and it’s going to have to be enough to take on these knights—

The door breaks down, and Carole takes one of the nearby wooden chairs and throws it as hard as she can at the first soldier that comes at her, which stuns him enough that he falls onto the floor with a thud. The second soldier is taller and stronger than she is, but she knows enough that being short and slight isn’t necessarily a disadvantage. Somehow, she ducks around his parry and swipes her sword wildly at him, slashing a bloody gash across his face and making him howl in pain.

But the third is smarter than the first two, or maybe more vicious in general, because he comes at her with all the fury and rage of a storm, driving her back toward the fire. Terrified, she trips over her own feet and falls to the ground, and he knocks the sword out of her hand, where it goes flying and lands near the hallway to her son’s room. She’s weaponless, and cornered. It’s over.

“Had you simply let us take him,” the soldier says, “all of this dreadful violence could have been avoided.” The other two soldiers have come to flank him, the one on the left bleeding heavily from the wound she’d inflicted on him. “Perhaps King Edward will have the mercy to kill your son quickly.”

He brings down his sword, and she squeezes her eyes shut—

But the blow never lands. When she opens her eyes again, she sees that the soldier has gone rigid, his expression changed from gloating to surprise as he stares at his stomach. At the blade of the sword that had just run him through.

As the man collapses to his knees, the soldier on the left engages her savior in battle, and the soldier on the right makes a run for it to Bradley’s room — but he gets his back torn open for his troubles, followed by the same treatment as the first soldier. The remaining man goes down after her savior brings the butt of his sword down hard upon the man’s head, and everything is eerily quiet.

“Carole,” says Maverick, sheathing his sword and going over to her, taking her hands in his. His husband — Ice, Iceman Kazansky, the other King of Miramar — comes to stand behind Maverick, scanning the room as if looking for more of the Wicked King’s soldiers. They both look simultaneously exhausted and overwhelmed, like they’d been chased a thousand miles by ghosts. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she manages. She kind of wants to throw up, but she needs an explanation first. “Maverick, I — they came for Bradley, they wanted Bradley.” Her grip on his hands tightens. “Why did they want my son, Maverick?”

“Mama?” All three of them look over to see Bradley has joined them, his face pale and his eyes wide as he sees the three dead knights strewn on the floor. “Uncle Mav? Uncle Ice? What’s going on?”

A wordless glance passes between Maverick and his husband, and Maverick sighs. “Sit down,” he says quietly. “And we’ll tell you everything.”

* * *

Bradley tosses and turns for most of the night, and heads over to the diner for breakfast first thing in the morning. It’s not as busy as it had been last night, and the waitress — not Susan, whose shift doesn’t start until lunch — says he can sit anywhere he wants. He’s about to go to the counter again when he spots Phoenix Kendrick sitting alone in a booth in the back, and before he knows it, he’s crossed the diner to join her. “Hi.”

Phoenix looks up, and her expression goes through at least six variations before landing somewhere between cautious joy and desperate hope. “Hi,” she says.

“Can I join you?”

She’s nodding before he even finishes talking. “Go ahead.”

Bradley slides into the booth, sitting down across from her, and the waitress comes over to take their orders. Phoenix orders scrambled eggs and orange juice, and he orders French toast and coffee, and the waitress bustles off to go put their orders in.

Phoenix breaks the silence first. “I didn’t expect you to stick around,” she says bluntly. “I gave you the money.”

“And my bank account thanks you,” Bradley says, but the joke falls flat. “I read the Book.”

Her expression gives nothing away. “And?”

He opens his mouth, and then closes it, unsure of where to start. The waitress returns with their drinks, and he doesn’t speak until after she’s gone. “If this curse is real,” he says. “And everybody in this town has been frozen in time and can’t remember their real pasts…how do you know about the curse? That it’s real?”

Phoenix looks down into her glass like the orange juice contains the answers to the universe. “I wasn’t born in the Enchanted Forest,” she says at last. “In the other world. I was born in the Land Without Magic. I was adopted when I was ten, and I’ve lived here for the last eighteen years.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Once you figure out you’re the only one in town growing up, well…”

Bradley tries to imagine that. Spending eighteen years in a town in the middle of nowhere, growing up around people who go through their everyday lives like they’re in a dream. People whose memories are so hazy they can’t remember how long they’ve been in town, or why they can’t leave. People like Ronny Carter, and Fritz Mendoza, and Susan Hyra. No wonder Phoenix had taken so much offense to being called crazy. He would if he were in her shoes.

“Do you believe me?”

The question is so quiet that he almost misses it completely. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I read the Book, and I saw…pieces of my life there. Things I almost forgot about. Like the blanket, and that song.”

“The song?”

He hums a couple of bars, and Phoenix smiles slightly. “So that’s the tune,” she says. “I’ve been wondering for so long.”

“Yeah. That’s how it goes. I think, anyway.” He shrugs, helplessly at a loss for words. “I don’t know what to think. I mean, the idea of a curse, and my family being out of a fairy tale — I just don’t know.” He sighs. “But I don’t think you’re crazy. There’s definitely something up with this town, and I’m going to help you figure it out.”

A slow smile spreads across Phoenix’s face. She looks quietly elated, like she’d never expected that in her wildest dreams. “Okay,” she says. “I can — I can pay you, if—”

“You gave me enough money the first time,” Bradley says quickly, not wanting Phoenix to bankrupt herself just to keep him here. “I’m here of my own volition.”

The waitress brings their plates by, and once she leaves, Phoenix raises her glass. “To a new partnership,” she says. “May we figure out what the hell is going on here soon.”

Bradley smiles. “Cheers.”

* * *

Four Months, Two Weeks Before The Curse:

After finding out that Maverick Mitchell — who she’d come to think of as a younger brother just as Goose had — was actually Prince Peter of the Kingdom of Miramar, Carole had thought that nothing else could possibly surprise her. But she’d apparently spoken too soon, because now the Ancient Prophecy is coming to fruition, the Wicked King is going to cast the Curse to End All Curses, and her son is at the center of it all.

“I know it sounds crazy,” Maverick says wearily, many hours later. They’d gotten rid of the bodies, and the soldiers that Ice and Maverick had brought with them from Miramar are stationed around the house, guarding it from any other possible threat. Bradley’s asleep on her lap, and she knows she should put him back to bed, but she doesn’t want to let go of her son now. “But it’s all that makes sense. The Savior has to be someone close to the target of the curse, someone who can break the curse on their thirty-second birthday. And that’s Bradley. It can’t be anybody else.”

“I believe you,” Carole whispers. “I just — I just wish it weren’t true.”

“So do I.” Maverick’s eyes are rimmed with red. “I’m so sorry, Carole.”

“I don’t blame you, Maverick. I promise. But…” She takes a breath. “I can’t let this happen again. I need to protect Bradley from the Wicked King. I’ll do anything to protect him.”

“We have a solution in mind, actually,” Ice says, and Carole turns to him. She doesn’t know Maverick’s husband well — they’d spoken before, of course, and she’d seen him at the wedding before everything had gone to hell — but she knows he and Maverick share True Love, and that he cares about Bradley too. “Come to Miramar with us. Stay in the castle. We’ll elevate you in the court, raise you to nobility, and we’ll protect you and Bradley from the Wicked King.”

That…that sounds amazing. More than Carole herself had dared to hope for. And Bradley had loved going to the castle for Maverick’s wedding… “Is there a catch?” 

“No,” Maverick says, like he’s stunned she’d even ask. “Carole, I…” He reaches out and takes her hands. “You’re like a sister to me, Carole. Bradley’s my nephew. I want you two to be safe.” His voice drops. “I already failed Goose. I can’t fail you too.”

Carole squeezes his hands. She takes a look around the room, around the house that she and Goose had bought together, the house where their wedding was held, where their son was born. She doesn’t want to leave here, but she knows she has to. She’ll do anything to keep her son safe. “Alright,” she says quietly. “We’ll do it. Thank you. Both of you.”

She sets Bradley down in her chair and rises to embrace Maverick, who embraces her back just as tightly. “You,” he says, “never have to thank me for anything.”

* * *

After breakfast, Bradley follows Phoenix to the library, which is empty of patrons and looks like it hasn’t been renovated since it was built — or created, rather, by the curse that he’s still not sure he believes in. They’ve sequestered themselves at the table closest to the reference desk, since Phoenix is technically on duty, and Phoenix sits next to him, going through the Book. “I haven’t been able to figure out who everybody is yet,” she says. “But I know that Susan is your mother, and that Pete Matthews is Maverick Mitchell, your uncle.”

“You said that his husband is in a coma at the hospital,” Bradley remembers.

“Yeah, he is. I’ve double and triple-checked, and I’m sure of it.” Phoenix flips to the end of the story, to the illustration right after the one he’d stared at so much he can see it engraved behind his eyelids. This one is of a blond man fighting the Wicked King’s knights, fierce and determined. “He was dying when the curse was cast, and I think that’s why he’s in a coma now. He’s a John Doe patient. And the Wicked King wanted to make Maverick suffer, which is probably why he made him and Charlie a couple in this world.”

Bradley winces, remembering the woman that Pete had been arguing with yesterday afternoon. “Yeah, she’s…something.”

“It’s not her fault,” Phoenix says. “She was a lot better in the other world; she and Maverick actually got along with each other there. The curse is making her act like this.”

“What about the Wicked King?” Bradley asks. “Who’s he supposed to be around here?”

Phoenix opens her mouth to answer, but another voice cuts her off before she can speak. “What are you doing?”

Bradley’s head snaps up. There’s somebody else in the library now; a man in his late fifties. Cruelly handsome, straight-backed and proud. His dark hair has been cut short, slicked neatly back from his head, and he’s wearing a well-tailored suit that looks like it had cost all of the money Phoenix had paid Bradley. There’s something unsettling in his steady gaze, something that makes a chill run down Bradley’s spine.

“I was under the impression you were supposed to be working, Monica,” says the man. “Not fraternizing with strangers.”

Phoenix swallows hard. While Bradley had been preoccupied with sizing the man up, she’d closed the Book and slid it onto her lap, and then into her knapsack. “He’s no stranger,” she says. “Well, he is, but he’s harmless. He’s just…new in town.”

“I see,” says the man. His eyes gleam with something dangerous that sets Bradley’s teeth on edge. “Then you won’t mind introducing us, I’m sure.”

Phoenix manages a tiny nod. She looks nothing like the blunt, determined woman that had hired him yesterday and forced him to listen to her about the Curse; she looks like a deer caught in the headlights. Whoever this man is, they clearly aren’t on good terms. That’s enough for Bradley not to like the guy.

“This is Bradley,” she says, and Bradley doesn’t miss how she omits his surname. “Bradley, this is…” She hesitates. “This is my father. Mayor Edward Kendrick.”


	4. Stolen Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Carly. This one's for you. :D

Thirty Years Before The Curse: 

It’s time.

The books Edward had stolen from the sorcerer in the northernmost kingdom had taught him that magic came from a place of emotion. Progress had been slow-going but steady, and he soon learned to summon his rage from growing up as a mere miller’s son with a father too drunk to do the daily deliveries, from being snubbed by the nobles at every turn, from his love leaving him for a haughty duke turned king, into powerful magic. He had sold his father’s mill for money, and now, only one step remains before he sets off on the path to become the most powerful being in the Enchanted Forest.

He looks into the mirror, admiring his reflection. He’d woven the threads of magic to trim his hair and create clothing fit for a noble, and he certainly looks the part. His left hand glows white, and he takes a deep breath. If he wants more power — if he wants everyone who had ever slighted him to bow until their necks break from bending — then even having a heart is a liability. He knows what has to be done.

Edward plunges his hand, now glowing even brighter, into his chest. Searing pain tears through him, but he grits his teeth and bears it, and when he retracts his hand, his emotions go numb. All of his worries and his cares feel gloriously muted, and he stares at the heart cupped in his hand, flecked with spots of darkness here and there but overall glowing red — though that will likely change with time.

He summons a fireball to his other hand, relishing the feeling of the sheer _power_ thrumming through his veins — power no longer restrained by trivial, worthless things like love, or emotions — and he smiles.

_At last._

* * *

Mayor Edward Kendrick doesn’t so much as twitch after Phoenix introduces him, but Bradley notices that his shoulders have gone slightly stiff, and his gaze, if possible, is almost as cold as the smile he’s wearing. His voice, too, is cold when he says, “Monica, I suggest you return to your posting. It wouldn’t do you to neglect the few patrons that frequent this place.”

“I…yes.” Phoenix glances between Bradley and her father uneasily before she heads off toward the reference desk, greeting the couple and small child that have been wandering around the children’s section. Leaving Bradley and Kendrick alone.

Creepy and cold though this man might be, he’s still Phoenix’s father, so Bradley figures he might as well be polite. All of those plans are readily tossed out the window when Kendrick meets his eyes and says, “What is your purpose here?”

Bradley’s eyebrows arch. “Excuse me?”

“We don’t often get visitors here,” Kendrick says. “I was simply wondering what brought you here. And how you came to meet my daughter.”

“I…” _Well, your daughter hired me to find someone who wasn’t actually missing, and now I’m here to help Phoenix break a curse that I don’t even really believe in._ “I’m a private investigator,” he says instead. “I needed—” _Answers?_ “—a fresh start. I drove until I found this town, and Phoenix — _Monica_ has been nice enough to show me around.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

Bradley’s eyes narrow. “You know,” he says, “I _could_ be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that’s not any of your business.”

“Actually, as the mayor, I’d rather say it is,” Kendrick says easily. “I’d like to know you aren’t a…threat to this town, and what it stands for.”

 _And what would that be, exactly?_ “Do you vet all newcomers like this?”

“We haven’t had enough newcomers here to say.”

“With a friendly guy like you in charge, it’s hard to see why,” Bradley says, instantly regretting the words after they’ve left his mouth. Then again, not really. This guy’s such an asshole it’s almost impossible not to be rude in return.

Kendrick’s expression darkens. Then he says abruptly, “I don’t appreciate the relationship you are cultivating with my daughter.”

Considering Phoenix is only a few years younger than Bradley at most, this thoroughly throws Bradley for a loop. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t believe that that’s any of your business.” Kendrick steps closer, and Bradley rises from his chair. Kendrick is taller than him, which Bradley absolutely despises, but that doesn’t mean he can’t take Phoenix’s asshole of a father in a fight. “Stay away from my daughter, or you’ll regret ever choosing this town for your ‘fresh start’.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Take it how you will. Just remember what I’ve said, and you’ll be perfectly fine.”

Bradley bites back the perfect insult. He’s never liked being pushed around, and Mayor Edward Kendrick reminds him of every bully he’d ever met in foster care. The mayor’s definitely more cold-blooded than most of them, but his self-absorbed focus is just the same. Apparently he doesn’t want his perfect town upset by Bradley’s arrival, nor his daughter to be ‘tainted’ by association. _That’s just too damn bad for him. If he wants me to go, then I’ll definitely stay a little while longer._ “Right,” he says, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“See to it that you do.” And Kendrick must know that half of intimidation is the beauty of a well-timed exit, because he turns on his heel and leaves. The family that had wandered in earlier practically jumps out of his way. _This guy must be a real picnic to have running your town._

Bradley heads over to the reference desk with Phoenix’s knapsack slung over his shoulder, and rests his elbows on an errant encyclopedia. “So,” he says. “The mayor’s your father.”

“Only legally,” Phoenix says. Her expression darkens into a scowl. “He adopted me when I was ten.”

“That’s good of him,” Bradley says. It might be the only good thing about the man at all. He’s glad Phoenix hadn’t had to spend her entire childhood bouncing around from home to home like he had.

“Trust me when I say that man’s never done a piece of good in his life,” Phoenix says. Her mouth twists, her voice goes bitter. “He doesn’t care about anybody but himself. He’s evil.”

Bradley’s inclined to say that that seems a little extreme, but he figures Phoenix would know better than he would. Then another thought hits him. “How does he figure into your theory?”

Phoenix glances over her shoulder, as if checking that the family is out of earshot. “He’s the Wicked King,” she says. “The one who cast the Dark Curse.”

_Of course he is._

* * *

Four Years Before The Curse: 

It hadn’t taken long after ripping out his heart and unlocking his true magical capabilities for Edward to integrate himself into nobility. He’d started as an advisor for a foolhardy Baron, eventually taking over the position himself when the Baron tragically died in a hunting accident (one that, of course, could never be traced back to him). The last twenty-six years had been spent forging connections and rising higher in the society, stealing hearts to give him more power over more and more kingdoms. Three years ago, he’d married Queen Mary of Miramar, formerly the peasant that had broken his heart and left him for a haughty duke turned king (who’d died serving in the Royal Navy, an accident that, for once, had nothing to do with him). He’d stolen her heart out of her chest, forcing her with his magic to elevate him as king regent so he could rule the largest kingdom in the realm.

The choice to kill her is a difficult one — after all, he had held some fondness for her once, and he’d controlled her for three years without anyone knowing — but in the end, his desire to rule unencumbered and the lack of heart in his chest wins out. She takes ill in the night, and passes away in her sleep; a mercy that he would never have offered anyone else.

She’s laid to rest in the royal family’s mausoleum two days later, in a ceremony attended by tens of thousands of people: nobility, peasants, the works. He plays the part of the grieving, widowed king quite convincingly, but it isn’t until he meets with the royal advisors that his vindication (the closest to joy he can feel) diminishes. Apparently, he _won’t_ be the official ruler of Miramar; that role will pass onto Queen Mary’s son, Prince Peter, who is the spitting image of his father in both looks and arrogance.

The thought of coming so close to so much power and losing it to a spoiled brat makes Edward burn inside, and it’s all he can do to keep from destroying the contents of his private chambers when he retires there for the night. Edward had thought by sending the brat away from the castle and across the land for his education — which Peter had probably taken as an opportunity to sow his royal oats — Edward would have the throne secured for himself, but the royal line of succession apparently takes precedence over everything.

He waves a hand towards his magic mirror, bringing it (and the magic trapped within) to life. Its voice is smooth, its face indistinct. “It appears you have found yourself in quite the predicament, Your Majesty.”

“Predicament is not the word I would choose.”

“And yet one you are in.” A pause. “He has no idea, does he?”

“That I’m responsible for his mother’s passing?” Edward scoffs. “Of course not. He even sought comfort with me.” He’d managed to play the part of the kind stepfather well, but having to embrace Peter and let him cry into his best robes had been sickening, and not an experience he ever wants to repeat. “I could have ended his miserable existence right there. Believe me, it was tempting.”

“It would have sated your soul,” the Magic Mirror says. “Unless you have torn that free from you as well.”

Edward ignores that. “The kingdom is still loyal to him,” he spits, pacing around the room. “If I tried to contest the line of success, the subjects would turn on me. And the prince is just like his father, arrogant and spoiled in every regard. I will be damned if I let him take any power away from me.” He catches himself, taking a breath before he can go any farther into his rage. “We must be delicate in this next phase. Peter’s demise must be handled with care.”

“Perhaps one of your knights.”

“No,” Edward says. He’d considered the same, but… “I need someone adapted to murder. Bereft of mercy.”

“Someone with no heart.”

Edward inclines his head. “Now you understand.”

“Well, in that case,” says the Magic Mirror. “You will need a huntsman.”

* * *

After a week, Bradley thinks he’s finally gotten the hang of Storybrooke — or at least the general layout. The town’s main attractions include Sherry’s diner, City Hall, the sheriff’s station, the pawn shop (which doesn’t seem to attract many visitors), the animal shelter, and the elementary school. (The middle and high schools are in the suburbs, which is where a good majority of the town lives.) There’s a hospital, and a park, and a lot of duplexes, and a few more restaurants of dubious quality, which is why everybody probably goes to the diner, and the O Club, where Fritz Mendoza has returned to work. The town is definitely a lot bigger than he’d thought it was.

Phoenix meets him at the diner for lunch, in what’s become their usual booth. They haven’t had a chance to talk as much, since he’s been familiarizing himself with the town and she’s been busy with her job, and she’s got the Book on the table before he can even sit down. “I’ve been looking through this again,” she says, and Bradley wonders why; she’s surely got the whole thing memorized by now. “Looking at the Ancient Prophecy. You remember how it ends?”

Bradley feels bad, but he doesn’t. “Something about True Love’s Kiss, right?”

“Right. ‘With True Love’s Kiss, the Curse shall break.’ And there’s only one True Love couple in this town — that I know of, anyway. We need to get them back together.”

“You said Iceman’s been in a coma for the entirety of the curse,” Bradley says. “And Maverick’s married here. And neither of them remember each other. How are we supposed to get him and Maverick back together?”

“I’ve been trying to come up with ways for years,” Phoenix says. “But the curse was very specific; it wouldn’t be able to break until you turned thirty-two and came here. Now that you’re here, we can actually try something. And I was thinking—”

“Monica,” says Mayor Edward Kendrick, and Bradley almost jumps out of his own skin when he sees the mayor approaching their table. Phoenix goes white, and Bradley grabs the Book, hiding it on his side of the booth under his coat. If Kendrick really is the Wicked King, him finding out about this Book is the last thing they need. “And…your friend. I’m sorry, what was your name?”

“Bradley.”

Kendrick doesn’t drop it. “And your last name?”

Bradley knows he should lie, but lies tend to stack up and fall apart at the worst possible time, so he meets Kendrick’s gaze evenly. “Bradshaw,” he says. “Bradley Bradshaw.” 

He waits for some sort of outward reaction, but Kendrick doesn’t so much as twitch. “Well, Mr. Bradshaw,” he says. “I see you’ve made yourself right at home.”

“It’s a nice place to be.” Across from him, Phoenix is shrinking in on herself like she might disappear into the booth if she tries hard enough. “A good place for a fresh start.”

“Well, if you intend to spend your stay here loitering around town and taking in the sights, I’m afraid you won’t be here for a long time,” Kendrick says. “Rooms at the B&B are expensive, and whatever money you have saved won’t last forever. And I’m afraid no one here is interested in hiring a private investigator.”

Bradley wants to retort, but Phoenix beats him to the punch. “He’s not going to be loitering for much longer,” she says, her voice strong. “He’s applying for the sheriff’s deputy position.”

Both Bradley and Kendrick turn to stare at her. “Is he,” Kendrick says after a moment’s pause. His gaze is so cold that Bradley shivers involuntarily, even though most of his mind is occupied by Phoenix’s statement. What the hell is he getting himself into now?

“Yes,” Phoenix says. “He is. And I’m sure the sheriff would be happy to hire him, since he’s actually got the background for the job.”

That seems to strike a note with Kendrick, for whatever reason, and his jaw tightens. “That remains to be seen,” he says. To Bradley, he says, “Good luck with your endeavor, Mr. Bradshaw. We’ll see if the sheriff has gotten himself into hiring loitering outsiders.”

“We’re heading over there now, actually,” says Phoenix, and rises. Bradley stands up too, even though they hadn’t even ordered food yet. Susan the waitress meets his gaze from behind the counter; she mouths the words ‘sheriff’s deputy?’ and he shrugs one shoulder. “We’ll talk to each other later, Father.”

“Yes,” Kendrick says. “You can be sure that we will.”

* * *

Three Years, Eleven Months Before The Curse: 

“So,” Edward says. He’d traveled to a tavern in the outskirts of the kingdom to find this man, and despite his reputation as a hunter, the man had still flinched when Edward had appeared in his room in a plume of purple smoke. A killer who can be manipulated. Excellent. “Do you have a name? Or shall I just call you Huntsman?”

The man doesn’t even twitch. Huntsman it is. “Why are you here?”

“I’d like you to kill someone for me. Can you do that?”

“I kill for me,” the Huntsman says. He’s got an unlit cigar in his mouth that he keeps chomping on like it’s a matchstick. He’s shorter than Edward, older too, and balding, but he’s strong. Edward has no doubt he’ll be able to do what needs to be done. “Why would I do anything for you?”

Edward recognizes a negotiation when he sees one, and graciously allows this one to happen. “Because I have so much to offer.” He summons a table and two chairs from nothing, and takes a seat. The Huntsman remains standing. “To begin, a place at my court. You’ll become my official huntsman, and want for nothing.”

His mouth twists into a scowl. “I’m not interested in being a pet,” he spits. He must have gotten his start as a peasant; his voice is rough and his language uncouth. “And besides, you’ve got an army at your disposal. What do you need from me?”

 _Smart man._ “My prey is respected and beloved by all the kingdom,” he says, his lower lip curling at the very thought of his aggravating stepson. “I need someone who won’t be blinded by that. Someone without compassion. Someone who will have no qualms carving a heart out and bringing it back for my collection.”

“And you want that someone to be me.”

“Smart man,” Edward says. “And you shall, of course, receive any compensation you desire.”

The Huntsman hesitates, but he takes a seat, and Edward knows he has him. “Who do you want me to kill?”

* * *

“It’s all part of the plan,” Phoenix says earnestly. They’re outside the sheriff’s station now, thankfully far away from her cold and honestly terrifying father, and Bradley still doesn’t understand where Phoenix’s plan about him applying for the sheriff’s job had come from. His relationship with law enforcement hasn’t been great (and isn’t that an understatement) ever since he was arrested at the age of eighteen for stealing watches, and served six months in jail in Phoenix, Arizona. “If you’re going to break the curse, you’ve got to show the curse — and my father — that you’re going to stay. He can’t get rid of you if you’ve got a good job.”

“He can’t just get rid of me,” Bradley protests, even though part of him — the part that is slowly starting to believe Phoenix’s theory — knows that Kendrick very much can. “Besides, how are you so sure the sheriff’s going to hire me?”

“You’ve got experience, and there’s an open position. He’s a pragmatic guy.” She puts a hand on his arm. “Trust me. This’ll work.”

Bradley lets out a breath. “Okay,” he says, figuring he might as well go along with this and see what happens. “Let’s do this.”

Phoenix smiles at him, and leads the way into the sheriff’s station, which looks just like every other police station Bradley’s ever been to. Same type of furniture, same temporary holding cells in the corner, but different in that it’s completely empty of people except for the sheriff, who’s sitting behind a desk in the bullpen doing some paperwork.

“Sheriff?” Phoenix says, and the man looks up. “I hope it’s not a bad time.”

“No, you caught me in a lull,” the sheriff says. He stands up and makes his way across the room. He’s around Phoenix’s height, maybe in his late fifties. Bald, stoic, strong, intelligent brown eyes, wearing a uniform that fits him perfectly. Looks like the type of guy who measures rulers with other rulers to make sure that they’re the right length. Not the type of guy to mess with. “What can I do for you, Miss Kendrick?”

“This is my friend, Bradley Bradshaw,” Phoenix says. “Bradley, this is Sheriff Tom Jordan.”

“Call me Stinger.” His grip is so strong it makes Bradley feel like he’d gotten his hand stuck in a drawer. “Welcome to Storybrooke,” he says. “We don’t get many visitors ‘round here.”

“I’ve heard,” Bradley says. At Phoenix’s nod, he says, “I’ve heard you’ve got an opening for a sheriff’s deputy.”

Stinger’s eyebrows arch. “You looking to apply?”

“Yes sir.”

Stinger eyes Bradley up, making him feel like he’s being X-rayed. Even though Bradley’s got a good six inches on the man, he feels like Stinger’s looming over him. “You got any background in law enforcement, kid?”

“Some,” Bradley says. “Worked as a bail bondsman for about five years, spent the last six as a PI working out of Boston.”

He’s ready to elaborate, but Stinger just gives him another once-over before saying, “Then you’re hired.” He returns to his desk and grabs a few sheets of paper, handing them to Bradley. “New hire paperwork. Shouldn’t take long to fill out.” Then, “Something the matter?”

Bradley picks his jaw up off the floor and takes the papers from Stinger. “No,” he says. “Just figured the interview process would be more lengthy.”

“You’ve got the background I’m looking for,” Stinger says. “Storybrooke doesn’t have the crime rate of Boston, but it’s got its own problems, and I can’t be a police force of one forever. You want the job, you’ve got it.” Then his eyes narrow. “But if you screw around, if you don’t take this job seriously, I’ll make you walk the beat in the animal shelter where the only excitement will be scraping dog shit off your shoes. You got that?”

Bradley straightens up. “Yes sir.”

“Good.” Stinger doesn’t smile, not exactly, but some of his seriousness has ebbed. “Come back tomorrow at eight am sharp and I’ll trade you that paperwork for a badge like mine.”

“You got it.”

* * *

Three Years, Eleven Months Before The Curse: 

Prince Peter enjoys hunting in the forest outside the castle grounds in the afternoons, and the Huntsman (by order of King Edward) accompanies him. There’s nothing to be had or seen in these parts except the occasional deer and rabbit who scamper off before the prince can even unsheathe his sword, but the prince doesn’t seem to mind. He looks like his father, the late king, but the Huntsman can see that his eyes (red-rimmed from grief though they are) are green, like Queen Mary’s had been. He keeps up a steady conversation and has the bearing of someone raised with a silver spoon in their mouth, but he’s not nearly as arrogant as King Edward had led him to believe.

“You know,” Prince Peter says. “When I was a little boy, my mother told me the summer palace was her favorite place. She said that the mountains surrounding it felt like a cradle, and they always made her feel safe.” He takes a shaky breath. “I think she would have preferred to be buried there instead of in the royal mausoleum.”

The Huntsman doesn’t know what to say to that. The terms of his job don’t require him to offer condolences. He takes off the helmet he’s wearing now just for something to do. It’s an ugly thing, anyway, plumed like a peacock’s behind. 

“You’re not a knight, are you.”

The Huntsman does not outwardly react, other than stopping so he can face the prince head-on. The prince is only a little taller than him; it’s not often he meets someone who he doesn’t have to crane his head back to look at. “What makes you say that?”

“Without fail, every one of my mother’s men has offered me condolences. Except you.”

Oh, hell. “Please accept my condolences, then,” he says, and makes a slight bow. “Your Highness.”

“And they all know how to wear armor,” Prince Peter says. When he speaks next, his voice is much quieter. “My stepfather picked you to take me. Why?”

 _It seems this one’s more than just a pretty face._ “I think you know,” the Huntsman says, dropping the act.

Prince Peter’s face whitens. “…You’re going to kill me.”

“You’ve got good instincts.”

“And you have too much armor,” Prince Peter retorts, quick as a flash, and before the Huntsman can unsheathe his knife, the prince has grabbed a large branch from the ground and hit the Huntsman soundly in the chest with it, knocking him to the ground. 

The prince takes off at a sprint, and the Huntsman curses as he jumps back to his feet and gives chase. It doesn’t take long — he knows this forest like the back of his hand, and when the prince trips over a log and goes sprawling onto the ground, it’s over. 

Prince Peter’s got a scrape on his chin, and he moves backwards until his back is up against a tree, stopping there. The Huntsman pauses before him. “You’re not going to try and run?”

“Why?” the prince says bitterly. “You know this forest better than I do. You’d find me, and if you don’t, my stepfather will. I know how this will end.” He swipes a hand under his nose, looking so young all of a sudden that it makes the Huntsman’s chest tighten. “Just get it over with.”

He unsheathes his knife, holding it high, and the prince squeezes his eyes shut. One smooth motion will bring it directly into the prince’s heart — which he’s been ordered to bring back to the King as proof of his deeds. He’s done this a hundred times before, and yet…

_No. I’m nobody’s servant._

“Run.”

Prince Peter’s eyes open in time to see the Huntsman toss the knife to the ground. “What?”

“The Kingdom of Fallon is a week away from here by foot.” He grabs the prince by the arm and yanks him to his feet, shoving him toward the nearest path. “Your stepfather won’t think to search for you there. Now go, run, and don’t ever come back.”

“What? I-I don’t understand. You’re not going to kill me?”

_“Run!”_

Prince Peter needs no further encouragement; he takes off at a sprint into the woods, tearing through the trees and bushes until he’s no longer in sight. The Huntsman picks his knife off the ground, cleaning the dirt from the blade. He doesn’t regret his decision, but now there’s the small matter of returning empty-handed to his employer…

There’s a snuffling noise from behind him, and he whirls around, relaxing slightly at the stag that’s emerged from behind a nearby bush. _Yes,_ he thinks, approaching the animal with his knife in hand. _This will do nicely._

* * *

“Sheriff Jordan.”

Stinger’s hand freezes halfway between the pen he’d just set down and the cup of cooling coffee on his desk. “Mayor Kendrick,” he says, as polite as he can manage. Not every day the mayor himself comes down to the station — just when he’s not pleased with the way Stinger does his job. He likes the man’s daughter much better, even if he doesn’t understand why she sometimes looks at him in a way that’s half pity and half sympathy. “What can I do for you?”

“I heard you filled the sheriff’s deputy position.”

“Not officially,” Stinger says. Monica Kendrick must have told him that. “He starts tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think you were in the business of hiring outsiders without enlightening me, Sheriff.”

“I’m in the business of hiring people with actual experience in law enforcement,” Stinger retorts. “To ensure our town’s protected and served the best it can be.” _Not that I can say the same for you._ “And I don’t need to enlighten you with the details of who I hire.”

“I disagree.”

“The town charter’s on my side,” Stinger says. He’d double-checked to make sure, since it’s been forever since this town’s had a deputy sheriff. “I can hire whoever I see fit. You might be my boss, Mayor Kendrick, but you don’t have a say in everything I do.”

Kendrick’s smile sends shivers down his spine. “Of course not,” he says. His eyes are gleaming. “That would be preposterous.”

* * *

Three Years, Eleven Months Before The Curse: 

“Did you think you could fool me with the heart of a stag?” Edward’s voice grows louder, more enraged with every word. How _dare_ the Huntsman disobey him! The Huntsman tries to retreat, stepping back, but with a wave of Edward’s hand, the doors to his chambers slam shut. “You’re not going anywhere, Huntsman.”

“Your stepson didn’t deserve to die,” the Huntsman snaps. Defiant and uncontrite to the end.

“That,” Edward says, “is not up to you.” He comes closer to the Huntsman until the man is pressed up against the doors, and Edward gets right in his face. “I wanted a heart, and a heart I shall have.” Channelling all of his power, he shoves his hand into the Huntsman’s chest, and he howls in pain. Edward’s teeth are bared in a vicious grin when he removes his hand, holding the other man’s glowing, beating heart.

“What’re you going to do to me?”

Edward’s grin grows. “You could have been my ally,” he says. “Now you will be my servant. My pet.” His grip on the heart tightens. “From this moment forward, you will do everything that I say. And if you ever disobey me, if you ever try to run away, all I have to do is _squeeze.”_ Edward squeezes the heart in his hand and the Huntsman doubles over in pain. “Guards!”

Two guards enter the room and grab the Huntsman by the arms. “Where should we take him, Your Majesty?”

“Put him in the dungeons.” Edward summons a box to his other hand and places the Huntsman’s heart inside before banishing the box away. “I hope your decision was worth it, Huntsman,” he tells the Huntsman, who’s still moaning in pain. “Your life is now in my hands. Forever.”


	5. The Runaway Prince

Three Years, Ten ½ Months Before The Curse:

Amelia knows she shouldn’t be here. She’s  _ supposed  _ to be at the market getting more flour, but Jack and Jill from next door had invited her to kick a ball around with them and she couldn’t say no to that. Besides, playing with them and little Flynn and Gabrielle is way more fun than doing errands.

“Get the ball, Amelia! Come on!”

The ball sails out of her reach, out of the field and into the cobblestone streets. Laughing, Amelia hikes up her skirts and sprints after it, relieved when it finally comes to a stop near the houses at the corner. She hopes her mother isn’t around to see her shirking off her duties; another ten minutes playing and she’ll actually do what she’s supposed to.

“Look out!”

Amelia looks up to see one of the horses from the livery galloping directly at her, whinnying like a wild beast. She knows she should move but she  _ can’t, _ she can’t do anything but stare straight ahead at the animal that’s sure to kill her the moment they collide. There’s a scream of terror building in her throat and she squeezes her eyes shut —  _ Mama, help me, please, somebody— _

Something knocks into her side  _ hard,  _ sending her flying across the street and landing with a thud in the grass. The horse continues galloping by, whinnying, and the butcher comes running out of his shop with his apprentice; by some miracle, the two of them get it to calm down. She can hear the butcher scolding the owner of livery, saying something about wasp stings.

There’s a young man lying on his stomach in the street, clearly unconscious, and she rolls him onto his back. There’s a dark bruise forming on his temple, and his hair is shaggy and greasy; he clearly hasn’t washed it in ages. His clothing is clearly expensive — leather trousers, leather vest, good hunting boots, a white shirt with long flowy sleeves, a nice fur cloak — but it’s all dirty, sweaty, grimy. He looks like he’s been running for a long, long time.

_ And he just saved my life. _

_ “MAMA!” _

* * *

At five to eight the next morning, Bradley arrives at the sheriff’s station to exchange his paperwork for a new uniform and badge. Phoenix had wanted to accompany him, but she had to work and was worried what her father would say if he stopped by and saw that she wasn’t at her desk. Stinger tells Bradley that his job for the morning is to do a patrol around town, and then tells him to meet him at the elementary school at one for the annual public safety lecture. Bradley hopes he doesn’t have to do anything for the lecture than smile and spout a few generic tips on street smarts, but doing a morning patrol will probably be easy enough.

Or so he thought. For one, his car breaks down a few miles into the patrol, and he has to drop it off at the mechanic. Tillman — the mechanic himself — assures Bradley it’ll only take a few days to fix, but that means Bradley has to do his morning patrol of the town on foot. Not terrible, but definitely not pleasant either. If it wasn’t for the uniform, he’s pretty sure some of the people outside the center of town might have called the cops on him.

Around noon, he decides to stop by the diner to get some hot chocolate to go before heading over to the elementary school. Movement catches his eye, and he turns his head to see what’s going on. He’d expected a cat or something, but instead he sees a girl of about fourteen darting out into the street after a soccer ball that she’d clearly dropped. She picks it up in the middle of street, tucking it under her arm and breathing heavily, and then she freezes — staring straight at the car that’s coming directly at her with no sign of slowing down.

Without thinking, Bradley rushes forward, grabbing the girl and yanking her aside just as the car speeds by, honking at the interruption of their afternoon commute. Unfortunately, his movement had been anything but smooth, because he ends up tripping over a pot mark in the sidewalk, sending himself (and the girl in his arms) tumbling to the ground. By the time he manages to sit up, the girl is staring at him wide-eyed, and Sherry Lucas (the owner of the B&B and one of the waitresses at the diner) is rushing toward out of the diner towards them.

“Miriam!” She grabs the girl (her daughter) and takes her into her arms, holding her so tight it’s a miracle the girl can even breathe. “What the hell did I tell you about running into the street? Don’t you ever do that again!”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Miriam whispers, sounding near tears. “I thought the coast was clear, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

All of the tension leaves Sherry at once. “I’m just glad you’re alright,” she says, stroking her daughter’s hair, and then looks over at Bradley, who’s picked himself up from the ground. Damn it, there’s a tear in his pants. He’ll have to fix that up later. “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot my manners.  _ Thank you. _ You saved my baby’s life. I can’t ever repay you.”

“Uh, it’s nothing. Seriously. Think nothing of it.” Bradley brushes the dirt off his pants, and then bends down and returns the wayward soccer ball to Miriam. “Here, honey. Watch where you’re going next time, will you?”

“Yes sir. Thank you.” Miriam tilts her head to the side, frowning a little. “Since when does Storybrooke have another sheriff?”

“Miriam,” Sherry warns, but Bradley laughs.

“Uh, since this morning. Deputy Sheriff, technically. Bradley Bradshaw.”

“Right,” Sherry says, with the air of someone remembering something long forgotten.  _ “Right, _ you’re staying at the B&B. How are you enjoying your stay, Deputy?”

“It’s great, thanks,” Bradley says. Phoenix keeps telling him that if he wants the curse to break he needs to get a job and get an apartment, establish himself as a part of the community that isn’t going anywhere. Still, he likes where he’s staying, and he figures he can put off the whole apartment thing until he gets used to his job. “Just Bradley, please, ma’am.”

“Then quit it with the ma’am,” Sherry says, smiling. “Just Sherry is fine. Listen, can I get you something from the diner? My treat, of course.”

Bradley checks his watch. He’s still got an hour before he’s supposed to meet Stinger at the elementary school, and the promise of something hot after enduring the cold weather for the last few hours is very tempting. “Hot chocolate would be great,” he says. “To go. I’ve gotta get to the elementary school for a public safety lecture.”

“Oh, I remember those,” Miriam says. She accompanies Sherry and Bradley inside the diner, carrying her soccer ball as she perches on one of the seats at the counter. He wonders why she’s not in school. “Those were lame.”

Bradley stifles a laugh. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause Sheriff Stinger always ends up going on rants about street smarts,” Miriam says. Now that he’s not a stranger, she’s pretty chatty, and seems like a sweet kid. “Try and stop him if he goes on for longer than a few minutes. Everybody will thank you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Miriam, go put your ball in the back, alright? You’ve still got an hour ‘til practice if you’re feeling up to it,” says Sherry, and Miriam goes off. “She woke up with a cold this morning, so I kept her home from school,” she tells Bradley, who nods. “You wanted some hot chocolate, right?”

“Yes, please. With whipped cream and cinnamon.”

Sherry’s eyebrows go up. “Huh,” she says. “You know, Susan Hyra takes hers the same way. What a coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, but the word catches in his throat on the way out. Susan’s on the other side of the diner now, taking a family’s order, and he shoves down the little voice in his head that sounds like Phoenix when it says,  _ That’s because she’s your mother. _ “What a coincidence.”

* * *

Three Years, Ten ½ Months Before The Curse:

His head is  _ pounding;  _ every muscle in his body aches, and it’s near impossible to summon coherent thought before it fractures apart in his mind. He’s on his back, that he knows for sure, lying on something so comfortable and warm that it almost brings tears to his eyes. So much better than all those days he’d spent sleeping in the woods.

Blinking dizzily, Peter finally manages to clear his vision and sit up, noticing that he’s in a bedroom, though much smaller than any he’s ever been in. He’s clad in a pair of trousers and a cloth shirt — both clean, thank goodness. He’s in bed, covered in what feels like handmade knit blankets, and when his hand goes up to touch his forehead, it hits cloth instead of skin. A bandage. What happened to him? And where is he?

There are voices in the distance — good, so he isn’t alone — and he forces himself out of bed, blinking away another wave of dizziness and nausea that almost brings him to his knees. Step by slow step, he makes it to the door and steps out into the hallway, listening closely to the conversation happening in the next room.

“—and what have I told you about running into the street, Amelia?”

“To not,” says a younger voice, a girl. Something flickers in the recesses of his mind — seeing a girl standing stock-still and terrified as a horse bore down on her, and shoving her out of the way.  _ That would explain why I feel like I was run over by a carriage. _ “Mama, I just froze up, but then he saved me.” A pause. “Do you think he’ll be alright?”

“The healer says he will,” says the other voice — probably Amelia’s mother. “Stay here; I’ll go check on him, see if he needs to have his bandages changed yet.”

Damn. Peter moves backward, intending to return to the bedroom and pretend to be asleep again, but he trips over himself in his haste to do so and lands on the floor with a thud. When he looks up again, there’s a woman and a little girl standing over him, both shocked. Sure enough, it’s the same little girl he’d rescued from the crazed horse: same curly blonde hair, same green eyes, same red shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Her mother has a narrow, pretty face, framed by wavy brown hair that ends around her shoulders, and a hesitant smile. “You’re awake,” she says.

“I…yes.” He gets back up, biting the inside of his cheek to force back the nausea. “I am, yes.”

“You saved my daughter’s life,” the woman says. “Though I wish she hadn’t gotten herself into such a situation to begin with…” She cuts a mock-stern glare at her daughter, who blushes and looks down at her shoes. “I can’t thank you enough. Thank you, with all of my heart.”

“It was nothing,” Peter says, feeling his face flush at the thanks. “Really.”

“I’m Leah,” she says. “And this is my daughter, Amelia.”

He inclines his head automatically. He normally doesn’t adhere to court manners and etiquette lessons — they make him feel like he’s pretending to be his stepfather — but these two had saved his life, and deserve all of the courtesy he can give them. “I’m…” He hesitates. “I…where am I?”

“Downham,” Leah says. If she’s confused, she hides it well. “We’re a market town. Provide a portion of the crops for the Kingdom of Fallon.”

Fallon. The thought is enough to bring tears to his eyes. So he did make it. Two weeks of running through the forest and scrounging for food and roughing it in ways that a prince should never have to. The man who’d spared him had said that his stepfather wouldn’t think to search for him here, but Peter knows better. Once his stepfather realizes he’s alive, he’ll do everything he can to track him down and kill him. Every second Peter stays here could put these people in danger.

“Madam,” he says, because court manners die hard. “I thank you for your hospitality, for getting me a healer, but I need to leave. I…if you’ll give me my clothes I’ll dress and be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Leah says, frowning. “You hit your head hard, you can barely keep upright from that concussion. The healer says it’ll take you at least three days to get back on your feet. Stay with us, and then you can…you can go wherever you wanted to go.”

“I don’t want to impose—”

“You wouldn’t be,” Amelia says. “Really. I mean, it’s the least we can do after you saved me, uh…I still don’t know your name.”

Peter takes a breath. Three days. That’s fine. And then he’ll…well, he has no idea what he’ll do after that, but he’ll figure it out. He’ll have to. “Peter,” he says. “My name’s Peter.”

* * *

“Street Smarts Tip Number Six,” Stinger says, and Bradley wants to die. So do the hundred kids sitting cross-legged on the gym floor, if their blank (and in some cases, horrified) expressions are any indication. Even the teachers gathered in the back of the room are exchanging looks somewhere between  _ God help me _ and  _ I do not get paid enough to listen to this.  _ “Never ever talk to strangers. Adults don't need to ask for help or directions from kids like you — and don't ever take things from them, either. Not candy, not food, not money, not anything. Keep a distance of at least two arm lengths between you and strangers so you’re out of grabbing reach. Otherwise the next thing you know you’ll be stuffed in the back of a trunk, and as we learned from Street Smarts Tips Three and Four, then it’s game over for you.”

Some of the kindergarteners look ready to start crying at that information, so Bradley decides to step in before Stinger permanently traumatizes every kid in the room. “And on that happy note,” he says, “I think that’s a good place to stop for the day.”

Stinger shoots Bradley a glare — according to the handout he’d gotten, there were still four more Street Smarts tips to go through — but he says, “I agree, Deputy Bradshaw.” He claps Bradley on the back a little too hard to be friendly and says, “We’ve got some coloring books and whistles to hand out, so if you’ll line up single-file, Deputy Bradshaw will be happy to give you something to take home. And remember, stay safe out there. Storybrooke might look safe, but there are dangers around every corner if you know where to look.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” the principal says, sounding exhausted, which cues the kids on the floor to say the same. “Alright, everybody, once you’ve gotten your whistles and coloring books from the deputy, go on and get your jackets and head on to the bus and parent pick-up lines.”

Luckily, the line passes pretty quickly, and the kids don't waste much time in grabbing the goods before running out of the gym. Stinger goes over to talk to the principal (Calluna, Bradley’s pretty sure his name is), leaving Bradley to put all of the leftover items in the boxes. Good thing Stinger’s agreed to take the boxes back to the station, because there’s no way he’ll be able to carry this shit there himself.

“Any chance I can get one of those?”

Bradley looks up and almost drops the box of whistles on his foot. Pete Matthews is standing in front of him — his uncle, Maverick Mitchell, King of Miramar, if Phoenix and his vaguest childhood memories are right — shifting from foot to foot, tired and rumpled and unsure of himself. Even if Bradley’s still split on the whole curse thing, it’s sad to see someone so alone and beaten down. “One of the whistles?”

“Coloring books,” he corrects. “They’ll give me something to do in between grading essays.” Bradley hands him a coloring book, and he puts it under his arm before sticking out his free hand. “Pete Matthews. I teach fifth grade.”

“Bradley Bradshaw,” Bradley says, inexplicably disappointed when he sees no sign of recognition in Pete’s face. “Deputy sheriff.”

“How long?”

“Since, uh…eight o’clock this morning.”

“Hell of an exciting day to start,” Pete says, and Bradley laughs. “Thanks for cutting off Stinger before he could get too into the Street Smarts tips. Usually Principal Calluna can get him to shut up before he reaches number fifteen.”

“Jesus,” Bradley says. “There’s fifteen of them? He told me there were only ten.”

“I think he might start ad-libbing after that,” Pete says. “Hard to tell.”

Bradley laughs. “So, uh,” he says, awkward and suddenly nervous. “Teaching fifth grade, huh. That must be fun.”

“It’s a living,” Pete says with a shrug and a tired laugh. “The pay’s decent, the hours are good, and the kids are okay. Their parents are the ones you’ve got to watch out for.”

“You have any kids of your own?”

“Me? No, Charlie and I — my wife and I never wanted kids.” He fiddles with his wedding ring, and Bradley wonders if his opinion on kids would have been different in another life. “She’s got her career to think about, you know. Works in the DA’s office, so she doesn’t have much time to relax.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Just about forever,” Pete says, and Bradley can hear Phoenix triumphantly reminding him that he doesn’t know how much time he’s been married because of the curse. “It’s funny, but I can’t remember ever  _ not _ being married to her.”

“Things must be good between the two of you, then.”

“Yeah,” Pete says, smiling, but Bradley can tell it’s fake. “Right, yeah. Things are great.”

“Seems like you’ve got a pretty good life.”

“Seems like it,” Pete agrees, which Bradley notices is not a yes. “Though sometimes I wish…no, never mind. It’s stupid.”

“No, what?”

“Well, uh…” Pete looks surprised that someone actually cares about his opinion, which makes Bradley’s heart clench. “Sometimes I wish I could do more, I guess. Charlie works a lot, and she does work that matters, and I end up sitting around a lot. Kind of makes me wish I could do something that matters too.” He snorts. “Stupid, isn’t it.”

“No,” Bradley says. “No, I don't think it’s stupid.”

“Bradshaw.” Stinger joins them before Pete or Bradley can say anything else, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. “You got everything boxed up?”

“Yes sir.”

“Alright, follow me. I’ll give you a ride back to the station too.” Stinger nods politely at Pete, who barely has time to nod back before Stinger heads out of the gym.

“Better get going,” Bradley says, balancing the boxes in his arms so nothing will spill. “It was nice meeting you, Pete.”

“You too,” Pete says. “Maybe I’ll see you around town sometime.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says, trying for a smile that falls a little short. “Sounds good.”

* * *

Three Years, Ten Months Before The Curse:

Three days had turned into a week, and then into two weeks once Peter realized that his savior’s words were true, and that nobody from Miramar had come looking after him. Leah and Amelia had been happy to give him a place to stay, and in exchange, he works with Leah in the fields during the day, harvesting alfalfa for the crop collectors. It’s hard work — harder than he’s ever worked in his life — but he doesn’t mind it. He likes it here. Likes the people. Likes being free.

“Some soldiers were in town today,” Amelia tells him and Leah at dinner that night. Leah had claimed not to be the best cook, but after two weeks of scrounging for food in the forest, any meal is better than none at all. “Talking about getting us to join up for the Royal Navy.”

“You aren’t old enough,” Leah says, like she’s heard this argument a hundred times before. “If you want to enlist, wait until you’re sixteen.”

“I don't want to enlist, Mama,” Amelia says with an eye roll, and Peter stifles a laugh. “I hear the baker’s apprentice is enlisting, though. And the butcher’s daughter. Lots of people. They were looking for others to renew their officer commissions, but not a lot of people volunteered.”

There’s a knock on the front door, and Leah rises to answer it. Peter rises automatically, and Leah waves him off. “I’ve got it,” she says. “Finish up.”

Amelia has just launched back into her re-telling of what had happened in school when Peter hears Leah say, “You’re looking for  _ who?” _

Peter gets to his feet so fast that his vision blurs. He can feel bile rising like acid in his throat, and his legs are trembling like they’ll give out from under him any moment. Amelia just looks confused, but she stays silent, listening to her mother talk to the strangers at the door. The soldiers from Miramar.

“The prince of Miramar, ma’am,” one of the soldiers is saying, and Peter almost throws up then and there. “Prince Peter. A dangerous fugitive; he ran away almost a month ago now. We have reason to believe he is responsible for the death of Queen Mary of Miramar. Have you seen him?”

His hands curl into fists, his nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. That’s the lie that they’re telling everyone? That he’d run away because he’d killed his  _ mother? _ This lie has his stepfather written all over it, that bastard.

“I don’t believe I have,” Leah says, cool and collected. “Not that any of us would know what the prince of Miramar looks like. He’s never visited here before.”

“He has dark hair and green eyes,” says the soldier. “Slim build, on the shorter side. Twenty-six on his last birthday.” 

“I haven’t seen anybody fitting that description,” Leah says, and all of the breath leaves Peter’s lungs at once. “I apologize. But I’ll be sure to let you know if I see the prince, or anyone matching that description.”

“Be sure to do so, ma’am,” says the soldier, and Leah shuts the door on them. 

Peter’s still standing when Leah returns to the room, which has gone silent enough that a pin dropping would have sounded like a cannon going off. Amelia’s slack-jawed, her gaze bouncing between Peter and her mother. Peter swallows hard. “So,” he says weakly. “Who was at the door?”

“You’re the prince of Miramar,” Amelia says, soft and full of wonder. “Prince Peter. Aren’t you.”

His mouth has gone as dry as sawdust. “Yes,” he manages. “I am.”

“Did you really kill your mother?”

“No,” he snaps, and forces himself to get it together. “No, I didn’t kill my mother. I wasn’t even  _ there _ when she died. My stepfather framed me for…for what he must have done.” The thought of his stepfather murdering his beloved mother is enough to bring tears to his eyes. “He wanted to kill me too, and I ran away. I was told they wouldn’t look for me here.” He meets Leah’s eyes, daring to hope. “You didn’t tell them I was here.”

“No,” Leah says. “You saved my daughter’s life. You’re no murderer. I would never hand you over to them.”

Relief hits him so hard it almost makes his knees shake. “Thank you,” he says, meaning it more than anything. “But I can’t stay here. Sooner or later, they’ll find me, and you’ll be in danger for harboring me. I need to get as far away from Miramar as possible.”

Amelia gasps and runs out of the room, returning less than ten seconds later with a piece of parchment in hand. “Mama,” she says, her eyes bright. “I know what he can do. He can take Papa’s commission; nobody will think to search for him if he takes it and disguises himself.”

Peter frowns. “His commission?”

“His officer’s commission,” Leah says, sounding as though she has a bad head cold. She takes the parchment from Amelia and holds it out to Peter, who takes it carefully. “My husband was in the Navy before he left us. Take this; you share his first name and can use his surname. You even fit his description a little — and the soldiers that are here wouldn’t have known him by face.”

Peter can’t find the words to thank Leah and Amelia for all they’ve done for him — in fact, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to thank them without bursting into tears. Instead, he looks down at the piece of paper in his hand, reading the information of the man he has to impersonate to survive. “Lieutenant Peter Mitchell,” he says. “I like the sound of that.”

* * *

“Mr. Matthews?”

Pete looks up from the menu in front of him, surprised to see the mayor’s daughter standing hesitantly in front of him. She looks somewhere between nervous and awestruck, like she thinks he’s some sort of celebrity. “Yes?”

“I’m Phoenix,” she says. “Uh, Monica. Monica Kendrick. Do you remember me? You…you were my fifth grade teacher?” 

Pete has to laugh at that. No way could he have been her fifth grade teacher; they’re practically the same age.  _ Then again, if she’s only a little younger than me, we might have gone to school together… _ His head hurts a little trying to connect the dots, so he pushes those thoughts aside and says, “I think you might have me mixed up with someone else, Miss Kendrick.”

“Right,” Monica says, looking disappointed for the briefest of seconds before she schools her expression. “Right, sorry. I meant — I meant you teach fifth grade. At the elementary school. My friend Bradley, the deputy sheriff, he met you there today at the public safety lecture.”

“Sure,” Pete says, smiling a little. Bradley Bradshaw was a nice guy, from the few minutes they’d spoken to each other. He seems like a breath of fresh air in Storybrooke, and reminds Pete of something (or someone) he can’t quite remember. “Yeah, we talked for a little. He’s new in town, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” Monica says. From his seat, he can see Charlie coming into the diner and looking for his booth, so he hopes Phoenix will wrap this up quickly. “He told me you were interested in doing more for the town, and I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

Curious, he cocks his head to the side. “Like what?”

“At Storybrooke Hospital, there are several patients there who, uh, have been there for a long time, with only the hospital’s staff to care for them. Long-term patients, people in comas, people who…don’t have families or people whose families can’t…be there often because of work and children, and other obligations. Things like that.”

“That’s awful.”

“It is,” Monica agrees. “It is awful. That’s why I was wondering if you would want to help out with this outreach program that my father’s office started not long ago. Once a week, for a couple of hours, some volunteers from the community go to the hospital and visit these long-term patients — talk to them, bring them flowers, read to them. Is that…something you’d be interested in?”

“Interested in what?”

Pete looks up at Charlie, who’s finally joined them. She’s smiling in that way that indicates she doesn’t know what’s going on, but she isn’t a fan of it. Monica smiles right back. “Mrs. Matthews,” she says. “I’m Monica Kendrick, Mayor Kendrick’s daughter. I was just asking your husband if he’d be interested in helping my father’s office by volunteering at the hospital once a week.”

“That sounds sweet,” Charlie says. “I don’t know if he’ll have the time, though, with his work and all—”

“I have time,” Pete cuts in. Usually he’s happy to have his wife make most of the decisions for him, but today, he feels a little more independent. “I’ll make time. I’d be happy to help, Miss Kendrick.”

“Call me Phoenix, please,” Monica says, grinning. “Thank you so much, Mr. Matthews. I’ll drop something by your classroom tomorrow with more information.”

She bounces off without another word, heading back to her booth (where the deputy sheriff is already sitting) across the diner. Charlie sits down across from him, frowning. “Are you sure you’ll have time for this on top of your teaching?”

“I’ll have time,” Pete says. “I promise. And it won’t impact my teaching, or how often I’ll get to spend time with you.”

Since he knows those are the words she wants to here, he’s not surprised when she softens. She probably wants to discuss this further, but since they’re in public and most of their discussions end in long, drawn-out arguments, she just smiles at him. “Alright then.”

* * *

Three Years, Nine ½ Months Before the Curse:

“Lieutenant Mitchell?”

Peter jumps to his feet, embarrassed that it had taken him a few moments to remember that Lieutenant Mitchell is his title now. Lieutenant Peter Mitchell, of the Fallon Royal Navy. He’s got to remember that. “Present.”

“The Admiral will see you now.”

He follows the young soldier out of the room and down the hall to the admiral’s office, where he’ll be given his next assignment. His first assignment, rather. He gets saluted — and attempts to salute back — before the soldier leaves, and Peter takes a deep breath, knocking three times on the door.

“Enter.”

He enters the office, keeping his posture perfect and his eyes straight ahead. It’s decorated nicely — mahogany desk, painting of the sea on one of the walls, shelves full of neatly stacked books, everything in its proper place. Behind the desk is a woman a few years older than him, maybe thirty, with blonde hair in a tidy bun and a look of surprise quickly masked by neutrality. “Lieutenant Peter Mitchell?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I’m Admiral Blackwood. Be seated.”

He takes the seat in front of her desk, trying not to flinch when she pulls out a stack of parchment with his false name printed neatly on the front. “Peter Mitchell of Downham,” she says. “Formerly of the HMS  _ Farragut,  _ correct?”

“I…yes, that’s correct. Ma’am.”

“You’ll pardon me if I’m being too forward, Lieutenant Mitchell, but this indicates you left the service seven years ago, at the age of twenty-six.” Blackwood leans forward in her chair, studying him intently. “You certainly don't appear to be thirty-three now.”

His throat is so dry that speech is nearly impossible, but he tries for a smirk. “I’m flattered to think I look good for my age, ma’am.”

“Now, I know it isn’t that,” Blackwood says. “Your Highness.”

All of the color drains from Peter’s face, and for a moment, he’s sure he’s going faint right there and then in this absurdly comfortable chair. But Blackwood isn’t calling for soldiers to arrest him, nor has his stepfather appeared out of thin air to kill him on the spot. She’s just smiling at him.

“You don’t remember me, do you.”

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he says carefully, wondering how in the world they could have met before.

“We met on your twenty-third birthday,” Blackwood says. “We were introduced under the guise of forging a betrothal contract, but your stepfather refused to consider it.”

His twenty-third birthday. That had been right after the marriage of his mother to his stepfather, and he’d spent most of the party drunk and trying to sneak away from the other royals. “Why would a betrothal contract need to be forged between a prince and an admiral?”

“Let’s just say you aren’t the only one trying to run away from your past,” Blackwood says, and Peter suddenly remembers her. She’s the daughter of Lord and Lady Blackwood of Fallon — Lady Charlotte, better known as Charlie. They’d spoken to each other briefly at his party — he’d been drunk and interested in a tryst, and she’d been uninterested even after he’d sang to her — and then he’d been sent away for his ‘education’ and he’d never saw her again. Until now. “I was tired of the life of nobility, and preferred to serve my kingdom in a way that mattered. You, on the other hand, seem to be in a different position.”

“My stepfather is spreading lies that I murdered my mother and ran away.”

“Lies,” Admiral Blackwood — Charlie — says, “that I never believed for a moment. I know you, Your Highness, and how you cared for your mother. You aren’t the man your stepfather says you are.”

All the breath leaves him in a relieved rush. “Thank you.”

She inclines her head. “I understand why you want to keep yourself hidden,” she says. “I’ll help you, a favor from one former noble to another.” She glances down at the papers in front of her. “The HMS  _ TOPGUN _ put in a request for a new lieutenant months ago. I think it’s about time I filled the position.”

“Thank you,” he says again. “Thank you, Charlie. I’m indebted to you.”

“Mention nothing of it, Lieutenant Mitchell,” she says, smiling. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

He grins. “You can count on it, Admiral Blackwood.”

* * *

“He’s interested,” Phoenix tells Bradley the next morning outside the sheriff’s station, beaming bright enough to outshine the sun. He’s exhausted from his late shift the night before and having to deal with the sheriff chewing him out for cutting his Street Smarts presentation short, but Phoenix looks so happy that it’s enough to make him smile too. “I stopped by the school this morning and gave him all the information. He’ll stop by the hospital sometime this week.”

“That’s great.”

“It is,” Phoenix agrees. “I mean, I don’t know what’ll come of it, but…” She clasps her hands together, her pleased smile fading into something more hopeful. “At least it’s something. Things are finally starting to change around here.”

“Yeah, they are.” Even the clock above the library had started moving again. Part of Bradley thinks that it’s because the clockmaker had finally started doing his job — mostly because he’s not ready to think of himself as the catalyst for all this change. “Listen, Phoenix…”

“Yeah?”

He takes a breath, and then forces himself to say: “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight? Nothing fancy or anything, just not the diner.”

“To talk about the curse?”

“I…no,” Bradley says, hoping that she won’t take it the wrong way. “I think we both need a break from thinking about the curse, and…I want to get to know you outside of situations where we’re trying to think up ways to hook up my uncles.”

That makes her laugh. “Do you want to go to the new seafood place?” she says. “It’s one of the only good places around here except the diner.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He smiles at her, and before he can ask what time she wants to meet up, Stinger calls for him to hurry up and get inside before he lets all the heat out. “I’ll, uh, see you tonight then. What time?”

“Six o’clock. That’s when my shift ends.”

“Six o’clock,” Bradley says. “I’ll see you then.”

* * *

Edward had always thought of controlling someone via their heart as an art form, one that very few sorcerers could ever understand the ins and outs of. It had been easier back in the Enchanted Forest, where magic had been everywhere and all he had to do was think. Here in Storybrooke, in the so-called Land Without Magic, it’s much more complicated. For one, he has to focus a lot harder, and seeing through the individual’s eyes takes exponentially more effort. Even then, his vision is spotty at best, and he can’t hear anyone whom the original owner of the heart isn’t directly focusing on. Still, vague control is better than none at all, and today he gets to see his prized Huntsman having a conversation with Storybrooke’s new deputy sheriff. The Savior.

Edward’s lips twist into a snarl. His stepson’s precious nephew — the son of his stepson’s best friend — had escaped Edward’s ultimate vengeance, and had chosen to stay in Storybrooke. Not only that, but he’d chosen to forge a friendship with Monica — with  _ Edward’s daughter _ — and that is one thing that Edward refuses to stand for. Still, Bradley Bradshaw doesn’t seem to believe in the curse, which is fine by Edward. That will buy him plenty of time to get rid of the Savior.

“I don’t have a late shift tonight, do I?” Bradshaw is asking, and Edward tunes back into the conversation.

“No,” says the Huntsman — Sheriff Stinger, rather, though Edward has no idea why the curse had chosen to give him that appalling nickname. “Wasn’t planning on it since you worked one the night before. Why?”

“I’ve, uh, I’m taking a friend to dinner and I made plans without figuring out the schedule. I was going to text her to cancel if I had to work tonight.”

Edward’s grip on the Huntsman’s heart tightens, and he adjusts his fingers just so. “Which friend?” he makes the sheriff ask.

“Phoenix — uh, Monica. Monica Kendrick.”

Edward almost crushes the heart in his hand then and there. Monica. Bradshaw wants to take Monica — who is still going by that infernal nickname — to dinner, where Monica will no doubt continue to convince him of the curse. And if he makes the Huntsman change his mind, no doubt Bradshaw and Monica will continue to sneak around and see one another. Killing Bradshaw will shatter the curse, but not neatly, and that’s the last thing he wants. He’ll have to take a more subtle approach to convince Bradshaw to leave town and never come back.

“Sounds like a fun time,” he makes the sheriff say. “Where are you taking her?”

“The seafood place — Dave’s Fish and Chips, I think. She says it’s pretty good.”

“It’s a decent place,” Stinger says, and then Edward takes over again, smiling to himself. He makes Stinger take another sip of coffee before he says, “Have a good time, kid. I’ll be driving around there tonight for the late shift; I’ll give you a wave if I see you.”

* * *

Three Years, Nine Months Before The Curse:

Peter shades his eyes from the sun as he steps out of the carriage and onto the pier, adjusting the collar of his new uniform as he does so. The docks stretch endlessly along the ocean’s edge, teeming with activity from the sailors and merchants and ships coming and going. Noise bombards him from every angle — bells, whistles, shouts, cries from the seagulls dipping and soaring overhead — and he can barely hear himself think, let alone try to find the officers from the  _ TOPGUN _ that Charlie had said would meet him here.

“Lieutenant Mitchell?”

He looks up at the question, noticing a tall skinny blond man standing about twenty feet away and coming closer by the second. He’s grinning like this is the only place in the world he wants to be, and Peter can’t help but grin back. “Yes,” he says, and then catches himself. He’s going to have to be a little less formal if he wants to fit in around here. “Yeah, that’s me. Are you the guy I’m supposed to meet?”

“Lieutenant Nick Bradshaw, at your service,” says the man, sweeping into an exaggerated bow, which makes Peter laugh. “You can call me Goose.”

“Goose,” Peter repeats, frowning. “Why Goose?”

“Eh, you know how Navy nicknames are,” Goose says. “You get one by accident, and if you don't like it, the guys will give you another one that’s even worse. Guess you don't have one yet, huh?”

“Managed to avoid that so far,” Peter says wryly, figuring that’s a safe answer, and Goose laughs again.

“Well, you’ll get one in no time. C’mon, follow me, ship’s this way.”

Peter follows Goose through the crowd — thank everything for Goose, otherwise Peter would have gotten lost for sure — to the ship, which looms over everything in sight. It’s beautiful, like something out of a painting. “That’s the ship?”

“That’s her,” Goose confirms. “The HMS  _ TOPGUN _ — you won’t find a better ship to serve on anywhere.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“C’mon, the guys are on the deck; I’ll introduce you.”

They walk up the gangplank together to the main deck, where there are two men in uniform waiting for them. Goose straightens and salutes them, and Peter automatically does the same, figuring that this has to be Metcalf, the captain of the  _ TOPGUN. _

“You’re Lieutenant Mitchell?”

“Yes sir.”

The man sticks out his hand, and Peter shakes it. “Captain Mike Metcalf. Welcome aboard.” He gestures at the man standing beside him, who has thinning brown hair and sharp green eyes and the bearing of a man who doesn’t take any shit from anyone. “This is my second in command, Commander Heatherly.”

“Lieutenant,” says Heatherly with a firm handshake, and Peter returns it. “Bradshaw, go introduce him to the others; we’ll be casting off soon.”

“Yes sir.” Goose leads him away from Metcalf and Heatherly (and the ensuing commotion that ‘casting off’ involves) to the other side of the main deck, where more men are standing around and talking. Each of them wear the royal blue and gold that mark them as lieutenants, the same rank as Peter, and when they see him approaching with Goose they immediately stop and look him over. One of them — a tall, chiseled guy with short brown hair — says, “This the new guy?”

“That’s him,” Goose says, and Peter tries to look as impressive and officer-like as possible. “Guys, this is Lieutenant Peter Mitchell; he’s transferring over from the HMS  _ Farragut.” _

“We know,” says another one, a skinnier guy with sandy brown hair and a shit-eating grin. “We were there for the briefing. You got a Navy nickname, Mitchell?”

“Not yet.”

“Yeah, you’ll get one eventually. I’m Hollywood, and this is Wolfman.”

Peter shakes everybody’s hands (and endures the back-slaps from some of the taller guys, which are enough to make his teeth clack together), trying to keep track of everybody’s names. There’s Hollywood and Wolfman, and Chipper and Sundown, and Merlin and Cougar, and Slider, the one who’d sized him up first. Viper is the captain, Jester is his second in command. And there’s Goose, of course, and—

“Hey, Tom, come meet the new guy!”

Peter looks away from Hollywood just in time to see another man approaching their little crowd. He’s at least six inches taller than Peter, with dark blond hair, damp with sweat and spiked up at the front, and striking blue eyes that are so pale they’re almost gray. His uniform is neat, and as he stops in front of Peter, the sunlight catches on the odd, arresting angles of his face and Peter forgets how to breathe.

“Lieutenant Tom Kazansky,” Goose is saying, “this is Lieutenant Peter Mitchell. Mitchell, this is Tom Kazansky, better known as Iceman.”

Iceman Kazansky looks Peter over. “No nickname?”

“Uh, no,” Peter manages. The sun must be getting to him, and he forces himself to smile and get it together. “Not yet.”

“You’ll get one eventually.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

The corner of Iceman’s mouth quirks upward; an almost-smile. He holds out his hand, and Peter shakes it. “Well, Lieutenant Mitchell,” he says. “Welcome to the  _ TOPGUN.” _

* * *

Phoenix is waiting for him outside Dave’s Fish and Chips at precisely six o’clock, wearing a nice red sweater over jeans and smiling shyly. “Hey,” she says. “You look nice.”

“I’m still in uniform,” Bradley says, his face flushing. He’d intended to change, but Stinger had kept him until the last possible second, and he figured showing up in uniform was better than showing up late.

“Uniform looks good on you.”

“Thanks. Uh, you too. I mean, you look nice. Also.” Phoenix laughs, and Bradley tries to smile around his embarrassment. “Uh, let’s go. I made a reservation.”

“How fancy. Lead the way, Deputy.”

Just then, a wave of bright light washes over him and Phoenix, followed by the sound of screeching tires. Bradley looks over his shoulder to see a car hurtling toward the front of the restaurant with zero regard for the rules of the road, and instinctively tackles Phoenix out of the line of fire — sending them both to the sidewalk in a groaning, bruised heap. 

The restaurant isn’t quite as lucky, though the people inside seem to have gotten away without any major injuries. The front is completely totaled, debris and glass and food everywhere, as is the car. Bradley forces himself to his feet, stumbling toward the car to see who could have been stupid enough (or drunk enough) to do such a thing. 

But the inside of the car makes Bradley stop cold. Slumped bonelessly over the steering wheel is a bald man in a familiar uniform: Sheriff Tom Jordan, better known as Stinger. Unmoving. Lifeless. Dead.


	6. Your Hand in Mine

Three Years, Seven Months Before The Curse:

“Are you an idiot?”

Viper is not pissed. Viper is completely, utterly furious. But Viper’s voice is completely calm, and his gaze is steady, and the only reason Peter knows his commanding officer is angry is because he can see it in his eyes.

He almost thinks he’d prefer if Viper just yelled at him.

“Tell me, Lieutenant Mitchell, are you stupid?”

Peter keeps his head up and schools his expression as much as he’s able. He, Viper, and Jester are sequestered in Viper’s office, and while others might think that entitles them to privacy, Peter knows that every officer on board is pressed up against the doors, listening closely and hoping to hear the exact moment he gets verbally eviscerated. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“Then explain to Captain Metcalf and myself,” Jester says, “why you thought it was a good idea to abandon your wingman and climb up the mast to free the  _ TOPGUN _ by yourself.”

Peter can feel a hot blush rising on the back of his neck. Their ship was attacked by a ship from the kingdom of Solmig in the middle of the night, armed to the teeth with swords and enough Solmig soldiers (or Migs, as the crew tends to call them) to make the odds impossible. Viper had ordered him and Goose to back up Hollywood and Wolfman, and for a while, that had been working — he’d never been more thankful for his childhood fencing lessons — but then the next thing he knew, the Migs had thrown ropes and armored nets over the  _ TOPGUN’s _ mast, and the ship was careening to the side, about to fall into the ocean and sink forever. Nobody was doing anything about it, so he told Goose to watch his back and climbed up the mast himself and cut down the ropes with his sword while clinging for dear life. The ship had snapped right back into an upright position — the whiplash nearly tossing him into the ocean — and he’d slid right back down to help Goose and the others chase the Migs back onto their ship. 

“Well?”

“I…” Peter takes a fortifying breath and draws his composure around himself, straightening and putting his hands behind his back. “I could see that we were in trouble, sir. I saw what I could do to save the ship and our crew, and I took the shot.”

“You took it,” Viper says. “And you disobeyed the direct orders of myself and Commander Heatherly.” He leans forward, his voice low. “Maybe on another ship you can get away with acting like a maverick, Lieutenant Mitchell, but not on mine, and not with this crew. Our orders are made for your safety and for that of every soldier on this ship. They are not flexible, nor am I. Either obey them or you are history. Is that clear?”

He swallows hard. He knows he’d been right to do what he did, but agreeing will get him out of here without being thrown in the brig or flogged in front of the whole crew. “Yes sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Jester leaves first, closing the door behind him. Peter turns on his heel to do the same, but a call from Viper makes him look back. “Sir?”

Viper is still frowning, but there’s an approving sort of gleam in his eyes. “Good job,” he says. A pause. “Don’t do it again.”

Peter can’t help but grin. “No promises, sir.”

“Get out of here, Mitchell,” Viper says, and Peter obliges.

Sure enough, everyone is gathered outside Viper’s office and not even pretending like they haven’t been listening in. Goose is at the front of the pack, smiling a little despite the worry in his eyes. “Glad to see he didn’t kill you,” he says. “He sounded pissed.”

“Looked pissed, too,” Peter says. He’s gotten a lot better at losing the formal tone and language that had been drilled into his head since birth; his first few weeks on the ship were punctuated with strange stares in his direction because of the way he talked, so he had to change fast. “I think he was a little impressed, though.”

“No shit,” Hollywood says. “That was the gutsiest move I ever saw, Mitchell. How the hell did you think of doing that?”

“Didn’t think about it, really,” he says honestly. “It just kinda happened.”

Goose throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “Well, I think it’s good we’ve got a maverick on board,” he says with a grin. “And we all lived another day, so I think that’s cause for celebration.”

“You said it,” Wolfman chimes in. “Let’s get tipsy, gents.”

Goose steers Peter out of the hallway and back onto the main deck, where the party lasts well into the early hours of the morning (and neither Viper nor Jester appear to tell them to knock it off). He’s surrounded by men who congratulate him and berate him for his stunt in equal turns, and he doesn’t stop grinning the whole time.

By the end of the night, everyone is calling him Maverick.

* * *

The funeral is in the late afternoon, and attended by almost everyone in town. Mayor Kendrick gives a speech before they lower the coffin into the ground about how Stinger’s death came as such a shock, though a heart attack isn’t surprising given the stress of the job and Stinger’s coffee and cigar intake, and so on and so forth. Bradley just stares straight ahead, unable and unwilling to pay attention. His boss is dead — his  _ friend  _ is dead — and he has no idea what to do.

The crowd disperses eventually, until Bradley’s one of the last people left. He stands in front of Stinger’s tombstone, which doesn’t bear his birth date or death date, just a name —  _ Thomas ‘Stinger’ Jordan  _ — and an epitaph:  _ He served us well.  _ He still doesn’t understand how this could have happened. Dr. Sink at the hospital — a tall man with a long forehead, messy hair and a perpetually worried look on his face — says it must have been a heart attack, but Stinger had been in perfect health for as long as Bradley (and Phoenix) had known him. This doesn’t make any sense. There must have been something else at play, and Bradley is determined to uncover it.

“How’re you holding up?”

Bradley looks over his shoulder, where Susan Hyra is standing with a bouquet of daisies. “Been better,” he says hoarsely. “Did you know the sheriff well?”

“As well as anyone around here,” Susan says with a slight laugh. “He always ordered the same thing on Wednesdays. A burger, beer, and a side of straight-cut fries. He hated the curly ones.” Her smile fades, and she sets the flowers down at the front of the tombstone. “Guess now I’ve got someone else to visit when I come by here.”

Bradley frowns. “Who else do you have to visit here?”

A shadow seems to pass over Susan’s face; she looks smaller all of a sudden, fragile from grief. Bradley regrets asking already. “My husband,” she says. She nods at something in the distance, at another tombstone. “Nick.”

_ Nick.  _ According to the Book, Nick was Bradley’s father’s name — his real name, not his Navy nickname. Bradley swallows hard; somehow, his voice comes out steady. “Can I ask what happened to him?”

Susan’s next breath is shaky. “We were driving home,” she says. “Arguing over…over something. I was driving, and I didn’t see the car coming that hit us head-on. And Nick took the brunt of the impact.” She drops her eyes to the grass, to the lone bouquet of flowers by Stinger’s grave. “Killed instantly, they said. Him and my baby.”

The words still his heart. “Your…your baby?”

“I was…I miscarried.” She swipes at her eyes with her wrist, sniffling. “Because of the accident.”

_ And if Phoenix is right, then that baby was me, _ Bradley thinks, barely able to catch his breath.  _ And the curse gave her these memories, told her to blame herself for her husband and baby’s death. Jesus.  _ “I…I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Susan says, though it clearly isn’t. “It was a long time ago.”

“Did they ever catch the guy that hit your car?”

“The case went cold years ago. Sheriff Stinger spent a lot of time investigating, but no luck. He never found who did it.”

“I’m sorry,” Bradley says, knowing it isn’t enough. Phoenix would tell him that to fix this, he has to be the Savior and break the curse, but breaking the curse won’t bring Susan closure, or bring her husband back. “I’m really sorry, Susan.”

She manages a shrug. “They’re at peace now,” she says softly. “That’s all that matters now. And so is the sheriff.”

“Yeah,” Bradley says. “Yeah, he is.”

_ He shouldn’t have to be, though. And I’ll find out how this happened to him, one way or another. _

* * *

Three Years, Three Months Before The Curse:

They’ve been at sea for the last five months now, the last of which being so uneventful that when the alarm sounds in the middle of the night that the Migs are attacking the ship, Maverick’s ready to fight before he’s even out of bed. As it turns out, it’s just a training exercise to keep them sharp, and Viper and Jester have them practicing sword-fighting and drilling them on tactics until they’re all ready to drop. Then it’s practicing training scenarios, with half the crew acting as Migs and the other half as themselves — objective: get Viper or Jester in your sights and hold them at swordpoint before they get to you. As usual, Maverick and Goose were a pair — and they’re one of the only duos who won the exercise.

“Still can’t believe you won,” Hollywood complains, words muffled from his mouthful of food. “How the hell did you get away with that stunt?”

“Barely did,” Maverick says. The rules were to stay together and stay on the ship; he and Goose split up and climbed over the railing, hiding from the others on the outside of the ship, and then they’d barely managed to corner Jester before he got them. “Thought Commander Johnson was going to piss himself when we dropped out of nowhere.”

“You  _ wanted  _ to do that, Mav,” Goose says; a little disapproving, but mostly amused. “Could’ve forgone being yelled at for that, by the way.”

He winces. “Sorry,” he says, meaning it. Goose is his best friend — his first real friend, his family — and Maverick would die before he let Goose down, intentionally or no. Goose nudges him to let him know it’s alright, and he smiles.

And then Iceman and Slider join their group, sitting down right across from Maverick and Goose, and Maverick’s smile drops right off his face. For whatever reason, Iceman’s hated his guts since he arrived on the  _ TOPGUN _ six months ago — not that it matters to Maverick. It’s not like he likes or respects the cocky, unfairly attractive prick anyway. “So,” Iceman says. He’s chewing on a toothpick, staring at Maverick like he can see right through him. Maverick fights the urge to blush. “Viper and Jester finish chewing you out?”

“Yes,” he grits out. “We aren’t in trouble.”

“Only one who was really pissed was Johnson,” Goose says, trying for some levity to diffuse the tension that arises whenever Maverick and Iceman are next to each other. He raises the pitch of his voice, imitating the commander who they’d scared the shit out of. “Two of your snot-nosed jockeys flew out of nowhere and almost knocked me off the ship, Metcalf! I want their  _ butts!” _

“Wow,” Iceman says, shaking his head. A smirk is tugging at his mouth. “You two really are renegades.”

At that, Maverick has had enough. “What’s your problem, Kazansky?”

The entire room goes silent, waiting for Iceman to respond. Iceman takes the toothpick out of his mouth and puts it on the table slowly and carefully, taking all the time in the world even though Maverick’s itching for a fight. “You’re everyone’s problem,” he says coolly. His smirk is gone. “That’s because every time you go out there, every time you pull another reckless trick or abandon your wingman, you’re  _ unsafe. _ I don’t like you because you’re dangerous.”

“That’s right,” Maverick snaps. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, and it takes everything he has not to lose his temper then and there. The last thing he needs is another talking-to from Viper and Jester, especially after they reamed him and Goose out for their latest stunt. “That’s right,  _ Ice _ -man. I am dangerous.”

Ice bites the air in front of him, baring his teeth. 

“Maverick.” Maverick — along with everyone else in the mess hall — turns around to see Jester standing near their table, looking unimpressed. “You and Goose get your butts up to the main deck for the evening patrol,  _ now.” _

Right. Part of their ‘punishment’ for not following orders. Still steaming, Maverick gets up from the table and stalks toward the main deck, Goose right behind him. “I hate that guy,” he says to Goose, who snorts.

“He’s not that bad,” Goose says. “Hey, maybe if you get to be in the same room without wanting to kill each other, you might even become friends.”

“Ha.” Maverick scoffs. “As if.”

* * *

Pete only goes to the hospital a couple times a year — for checkups and for taking the kids during their  _ Jobs in Town  _ unit — and he’s never been in the long-term patients ward. Monica Kendrick (who insists on being called Phoenix) has, however, and gives him the not-so-grand tour. She’s sweet, if a little odd; she’ll be brisk and informative (if overly formal, like he’s a visiting dignitary, not a fifth grade teacher) one second, and then she’ll gaze at him when she thinks he can’t see her, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Either way, by the end of the tour he’s got a good idea of what his job will be, and he’s looking forward to it.

“So which patient is mine?”

Phoenix stills. “Oh,” she says, pasting a hasty smile on her face. “Well, you’ll be reading to one of the patients, like I said. I put you down for one of the patients who’s been here the longest: John Doe #1. I usually have him, but he’ll be happy to have you for company.”

_ No he won’t,  _ Pete thinks.  _ He’s in a coma. He won’t even know I’m there.  _ “Right,” he says instead. “Uh, and I’m just supposed to…talk to him? What if I run out of things to say?”

Unlike Charlie, Phoenix doesn’t treat it as a stupid question. “You could always read to him,” she suggests. “That’s what I do. It’ll be good for him to have a steady stream of conversation going.”

“Read to him,” Pete repeats. Despite his profession, he isn’t much of a reader. The only books he’s read recently are at a fifth grade level, and he doesn’t want to spend the evening reading elementary school chapter books to a comatose man. “Like what?”

A smile spreads across Phoenix’s face; a genuine smile, this time. “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ve got the perfect book in mind. I think you’ll both love it.”

* * *

Two Years, Eight Months Before The Curse:

“C’mon, Mav, you’ve got this. One more try.”

Maverick rubs his shirtsleeve over his forehead, wiping the sweat away. “Okay,” he says, determined. “Yeah, okay, let’s go again.”

He lunges at Goose, who parries his strike easily and feints at Maverick’s left, which he manages to block in the nick of time. The trick is to twist your opponent’s blade with the flat of your own sword so that they’ve got no choice but to drop their weapon — it’s similar to what he’s been taught and what he’s learned so far, but whereas the others learned this at the Naval Academy or on ships they’d previously served on, this is his first time ever trying the maneuver and it isn’t going well. Usually he can think his way out of using proper technique, but not this time — and sure enough, Goose hits the hilt of Maverick’s sword on Maverick’s attempt to parry, sending Maverick’s sword skidding across the floor of the main deck.

“What’re you doing?”

Maverick fights the urge to swear at the unwelcome interruption. “Practicing,” he says through gritted teeth, and he picks his sword up off the deck. Goose has been working with him one on one for the last two and a half hours, and Maverick still can’t get the damn maneuver down. “Leave us alone, Kazansky.”

He gets back into position, but before he can move, Iceman says, “You need to fix your stance.”

Maverick turns around, where Iceman’s leaning against the railing, watching them with his head cocked slightly to the side. As always, his hair and uniform are impeccable, and Maverick flushes, knowing how disheveled he is in comparison. “What?”

“You need to be more relaxed. Get on the balls of your feet and bend your knees a little.” He demonstrates. “You’re too stiff.”

“Oh, that’s big talk from you, Lieutenant ‘ice cold, no mistakes,’” Maverick snaps, humiliated. It isn’t bad enough that he can’t do what even Chipper and Sundown can do with no trouble; now he has to deal with Iceman Kazansky offering him advice. “My stance is fine.”

“Right,” Iceman says. The bastard even has the audacity to sound amused. “My mistake. I was under the impression you were struggling here, but you’re clearly doing fine. I’d pick you to be my wingman any time.”

“Fuck you, Kazansky.”

“Mav,” Goose warns, the note of  _ take it easy  _ clear in his voice, and it’s enough to make Maverick stand down. At least until Goose looks between Maverick and Iceman and says, “Tom, you want to spar with him for a couple rounds? I gotta get some water; I’m beat.”

Maverick chokes on his next breath. “Goose,” he says, half warning, half plea, “I don’t know if—”

“Sure,” Iceman says, stopping the rest of Maverick’s protest in its tracks. His expression is inscrutable as he steps forward, unsheathing his sword from the scabbard at his side. “Think you can handle sparring with me, Maverick?”

Maverick grins with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Just a walk in the park, Kazansky.”

Goose claps him on the back as he leaves —  _ traitor,  _ Maverick thinks with a glare in his best friend’s direction — and Iceman readies his stance. “Alright,” he says, surprisingly matter of fact, like this is one of the fencing lessons Maverick had been subjected to as a kid. “Get into your ready position.”

Maverick does — then, at Iceman’s raised eyebrows, relents and loosens up. It’s strange to go against what he’d learned in fencing lessons (especially since those had kept him alive for the last year), but it does feel easier to move this way. “You ready?”

“Show me how you do the maneuver first,” Iceman says, and Maverick frowns. Reluctantly, he goes through the motions of the disarming maneuver — and even though his stance is looser, it still feels wrong. “Lower your sword a little. Okay, now slant your body a little bit more to the left — no, not too much, now you’re off-balance.”

“Make up your mind,” Maverick snaps. “Left or not?”

“Left,” Iceman says, but he shakes his head the second Maverick moves. Maverick glares at him, and Iceman sighs. “I’ll show you.”

He’d expected Iceman to run through the maneuver himself, but instead Iceman sheathes his sword and crosses the distance between them. He comes up behind Maverick and places his hands on Maverick’s hips, and Maverick’s brain short-circuits. Wordlessly, he lets Iceman adjust his stance, his hands lightly squeezing Maverick’s hips, his thigh knocking into the back of Maverick’s knee as he places Maverick on more of a slant. And then Iceman’s arms envelope his, and he places his hands over Maverick’s, lowering the hilt of the sword ever so slightly.

Maverick can feel Iceman breathing, the gentle rise and fall of Iceman’s chest against his back. He’s warm — and isn’t that ironic, given his Navy nickname — and solid, and Maverick struggles to stay focused on the weapon in his hands. He can’t remember the last time someone had been so close to him, had held him like this. His cheeks burn at the thought.  _ Get it together, Mitchell. _

“Alright,” Iceman says. His voice is quiet, his breath tickling Maverick’s ear. “Now do it again.”

Somehow, Maverick manages to nod. He goes through the motions of the form, his body tucked into Iceman’s, and flowing perfectly with his movements — and this time, it actually feels right.

“There,” Iceman says. “You’ve got it.” He releases Maverick and steps away, and Maverick feels cold, despite the glaring sun overhead. He feels lightheaded, dizzy. “Try it yourself now.”

Maverick steps into the maneuver, bringing his sword into a downward thrust before lunging forward and jabbing his sword into his imaginary opponent’s chest. And then again, and again — and he doesn’t trip or drop his sword or miss a step, and a grin spreads across his face. He’s got it. 

“Now let’s see if you can do it against me.”

All of his excitement evaporates, but is quickly replaced by determination. He’s sparred against Iceman before — and even if the number of wins is tipped the tiniest bit in Iceman’s favor, he can beat him this time. He knows he can. “Whenever you’re ready, Iceman.”

He and Iceman begin circling each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. And then, quick as a flash, Iceman lunges at him, and Maverick barely manages to parry the sword before Iceman offers up a riposte. He tries to hit Iceman’s hip, thrusting his sword forward, but Iceman easily parries it and Maverick leaps back, jumping back to relying on his instincts. He feints and then lunges forward, and Iceman only just manages to deflect the blow, his sword landing on top of Maverick’s, the blades scraping against one another.

There’s a rhythm to all of this that he finds beautiful, a song and dance with very specific steps. Counter, lunge, thrust, parry, riposte, and then all over again, but with enough variation to keep things exciting. Still, Maverick’s getting tired, and Iceman’s got the advantage of his height and strength in this fight, so he’s got to end it fast.

_ What the hell,  _ Maverick thinks, and tries the disarming maneuver.

Maverick’s blade hits the base of Iceman’s and then he twists, putting his whole weight into a downward thrust. But the move takes him off balance, and Iceman’s sword has just clattered out of his hand when Maverick knocks into him, sending them both to the floor with a thud.

Maverick knows he should get up, but he can’t make himself move. He’d landed on top of Iceman; they’re abdomen to abdomen, his knees around Iceman’s hips. It’s the closest they’ve ever been to each other, even closer than they’d been earlier. Forget moving, he can’t even think coherently with Iceman Kazansky looking at him like that.

“Told you,” Iceman says. The words are lighter than usual, softer. “All in the stance.”

Maverick’s laugh is breathless at the edges. “Right.”

Iceman has just opened his mouth when Maverick hears footsteps, followed by Goose saying, “What happened?”

Maverick’s brain starts working again with a jolt, and he scrambles off Iceman, getting back to his feet. Goose is staring at them like he can’t believe his eyes — oh fuck,  _ everyone  _ is here, all of the officers minus Jester and Viper. When had they showed up? Had they been there the whole time? “I got the maneuver down.” Somehow his voice comes out steady. “Tripped on the execution, though.”

“Few more times and you’ll get it,” Iceman says. He’s still on the floor, looking up at Maverick. He doesn’t seem cool and collected now; in fact, he looks like he’s caught a little too much sun. Maverick can relate. “Want to lend me a hand, Mitchell?”

Maverick feels like he’s in a dream, but he extends his hand. Iceman takes it and pulls himself to his feet, brushing imaginary dust off the front of his uniform. He looks over at Maverick like he might say something, but decides against it; instead, he picks his sword up off the floor and walks off.

The crowd disperses, probably bored now that the drama is over and done, and Goose approaches Maverick. “Sorry it took me a bit to come back,” he says. “Wolf and Wood roped me into one of their arguments when I was on the way back.” His good-natured smile fades into a frown after Maverick doesn’t respond. “You alright, Mav?”

“Yeah,” Maverick manages. His gaze is on Iceman, who’s standing by the quarter deck railing now, talking to Slider. The sunlight catches on his face and shines off his hair, and there’s a slight smile playing on his mouth. “Yeah, I’m alright.”

_ God help me. I am so fucked. _

* * *

“Deputy Bradshaw, I’m sorry, I really don’t have time to talk. I’ve got to assist a surgery on the fourth floor.”

“Doctor, this’ll only take a few minutes, I promise.” After two days of investigations that have gone nowhere, Bradley’s ready to pull his hair out from frustration. “I just want to ask a couple questions about Sheriff Stinger’s medical records. What was his health like before the accident?”

Dr. Sink sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I kept advising him to cut down on the smoking and the caffeine intake,” he says. “Told him he was running a high risk of heart disease if he kept up those habits, and he tried unsuccessfully to cut down every once in a while.”

“Was he a drinker?”

Sink shakes his head. “Never touched the stuff. I saw the tests after they brought him in, Deputy. Tox screening was negative. His BAC was nonexistent. He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t taking anything. It was a heart attack that killed the sheriff; nothing more and nothing less.”

“Did you do an autopsy?”

Another shake of the head. “No,” he says. “I would’ve liked to, but…”

That gets Bradley’s attention. “But what?”

“Deputy Bradshaw,” comes another voice, and judging by the doctor’s flinch, Bradley can guess what Sink had wanted to say. Mayor Kendrick looks as proper and put together as usual, and just as cold too. Why is the mayor here? Who would he have to visit? “I do hope you aren’t bothering our good doctor, here.”

“I’m not,” Bradley bites out. “I’m doing my job. Investigating the sheriff’s untimely demise.”

“Yes, well,” Kendrick says. “I don’t believe a heart attack warrants much investigation. Unless you don’t trust Dr. Sink’s diagnosis?”

“No,” Bradley says. “No, I mean, I do, but—”

“But what? You find it unlikely a smoker in Sheriff Stinger’s condition would have a heart attack?” Kendrick scoffs, and Bradley wants to punch him in his perfect teeth. “I don't have time to tolerate your wild goose chases, Deputy Bradshaw, not when you should be doing your job and protecting the town. You’re fired.”

Bradley gapes. “Excuse me?”

“You were Sheriff Stinger’s folly, not mine, and I am through tolerating your incompetence. You are not qualified for this job, and you are not welcome in my town. You are fired, Mr. Bradshaw. Feel free to depart Storybrooke whenever you wish.”

Bradley feels like his brain is working at half speed; he can only manage an incredulous stare. “You can’t be serious.”

Kendrick’s answering smile is simultaneously poisonous and sweet, and Sink wisely stays out of it. “Serious as a heart attack,” he says. “Goodbye, Mr. Bradshaw. Have a nice day.”

* * *

“I won’t be home for dinner tomorrow night,” Pete says to Charlie, who sets down her glass of water with a frown. “It’ll be my first day of volunteering at the hospital.”

“For the mayor’s initiative, right,” Charlie says. “What will you be doing?”

Pete fiddles with his fork. He’s a little embarrassed to say, but… “Reading to one of the long-term coma patients.”

Charlie scoffs. “And that’s supposed to be helping the town?”

“Monica Kendrick seems to think so. And so does her father, otherwise he never would have approved of the initiative.”

Charlie doesn’t have a smart comeback for that one, for which Pete is grateful. Their dinners together are usually quiet — neither speaking to the other unless it’s important — and he doesn’t want to pick a fight right now. “Well,” she finally says, “I suppose if they asked you to do it, they know you won’t mess it up.”

Pete’s a little offended by that, but he keeps his mouth shut.  _ Don't provoke her, and don't let her provoke you.  _ “It’ll only be for a few hours,” he says. “I won’t mess anything up.”

_ It’s not like anything is going to happen, anyways. _

* * *

Two Years, Four Months Before The Curse:

Maverick had been raised on garden parties and afternoon teas, and his tutors had taught him from an early age that pubs were dirty places full of peasants and cheap swill. Still, he snuck away from the palace several times to see how the ‘other half’ lived, but his enjoyment was tempered by the fact that someone always ended up recognizing him. Here, he doesn’t have that problem, which makes shore leave more fun than he could have ever imagined.

They have two days off before they have to set sail again, this time for Solmig, and tonight, they’re at a pub near the harbor, which is full to bursting with people of all ages and genders. Tables have been shoved together to make a makeshift bandstand, where an ad hoc band is gathered near the upright piano, playing lively stomping music on a fiddle, an accordion and a tambourine — so different from the classical violin music he’d grown up with. People everywhere are dancing, or drinking beer and mulled wine, and some are doing both at the same time. Others are smoking, still others are brawling, someone has a card game set up in the back corner, but everyone is laughing and look as though they’re having a good time.

Maverick thinks it’s wonderful.

Goose had written Carole to inform her about their upcoming shore leave months ago, and she’d come up to visit them, bringing baby Bradley with her. The four of them — Goose, Carole, Maverick, and Bradley — are sequestered in a corner, squeezed next to a table full of lieutenants from the  _ TOPGUN.  _ Hollywood’s flirting with one of the waitresses while Wolfman glowers, Cougar’s off somewhere with Merlin, Viper and Jester are nowhere to be found, and Ice is talking to Slider about something or other. He and Ice have become better friends since their sparring sessions all those months ago, but to Maverick’s dismay, his feelings for the man have only gotten stronger. It’ll take a miracle to get rid of them now.

“Lieutenant Mitchell!”

Maverick startles and jumps upright, spilling some of his beer on the table, but his nerves fade when he notices who’s standing before him. “Admiral Blackwood,” he says with a grin and a slight bow. “What’re you doing here?”

“They’re sending me to meet with the king and queen next week,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes like it’s a major inconvenience. “The other admirals and I have to discuss our strategy for the end of the war.” She smiles at him, surprisingly genuine, and he’s glad to see her. Glad to have her as a friend. “It’s good to see you, Peter.”

“Maverick, please,” he corrects. Then, noticing the incredulous stares of Goose, Carole, and the soldiers around them, he quickly says, “Charlie, these are the men of the HMS  _ TOPGUN. _ Soldiers, this is Admiral Charlotte Blackwood, an old friend of mine.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am,” Goose says, inclining his head. He’s got Bradley perched on his hip, but he still rises to shake Charlie’s hand. “Lieutenant Nick Bradshaw. Goose.”

“Hello, Goose. Ma’am,” she says to Carole with a nod, “gentlemen. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to bid you adieu. The rest of my party’s just arrived.” She waves at an older gentleman, who waves back. “I’ll be there in a moment, Perry.”

“Good seeing you, Charlie,” Maverick says. “Win the war for us, will you?”

“I’ll plan the perfect strategy,” Charlie promises with a laugh, squeezing his shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”

She strolls off after Perry, and Maverick is left to deal with the stunned gazes and questions of everyone around him. “Mitchell, you’ve been holding out on us!” Slider says with a low whistle. “Where the hell do you know an admiral from?”

“We, uh, we grew up together,” Maverick says. It’s as close to the truth as he’s willing to give. “Old friends. You know how it is.”

“Damn,” Hollywood says. “I wish I had old friends who looked like  _ that. _ You two ever…” He makes a dirty gesture, and Wolfman smacks him on the back of the head. Slider and Chipper roll their eyes in near perfect unison. Goose whispers something into Carole’s ear, and she giggles. Ice is strangely tense. “You know?”

“No, we didn’t,” Maverick says. “And if we did, you sure as hell wouldn’t be the one I’d tell, Neven.” Hollywood calls bullshit, and Wolfman tells him to leave Maverick alone and get back to the topic at hand. Slider goes off to flirt with one of the waitresses, and Wolf and Wood go off to order more drinks, and…is it his imagination, or does Ice look relieved?

“Maverick!” Carole giggles, bringing Maverick’s attention away from Ice and back to his own conversation. “Will you go and  _ fetch him?” _

Goose snaps Carole a salute before hopping up to take the place of the pianist, who’s either too drunk to play or too tired. The band’s pleased to have another pianist up there to keep the concert going, and Goose perches Bradley on top of the piano, where the kid starts clapping happily to the beat. “He seems like he’s having a good time.”

Carole laughs. “Doesn’t he ever embarrass you?”

“Goose? Hell no. Well, there was the time with—”

“The admiral’s daughter?” Maverick’s jaw drops, and Carole grins like the cat who ate the whole flock of canaries. “He told me all about the time you went ballistic with Penny Benjamin.”

“Did he?” Maverick feels his face go hot and prays that Ice isn’t listening. He’d only slept with Penny Benjamin because he was trying to get over his inconvenient feelings for Ice, and he hadn’t known she was the daughter of Robby Benjamin, one of the higher ranking admirals in the Royal Navy. Fuck, he hopes Admiral Benjamin isn’t here for Charlie’s meeting. “Great.”

“He tells me about everything, Maverick,” Carole says, and Maverick puts his arm around her, listening in. “How my angel Goose goes home early for church — and you always go home with the hot women.”

“Goose flatters me, Carole,” Maverick says with a laugh. “And so do you.” He kisses her on the cheek, and she swats at his shoulder playfully. “Want me to go embarrass myself with Goose for a while?”

“Nah, I’ll do that. You keep our chairs warm.”

“Will do.”

Maverick salutes her as she hops up and joins her husband and son at the piano, singing along to whatever song the band is playing. Something fast and lively; he doesn’t recognize it.

“How’s your beer?”

Maverick almost drops said drink on his pants at the question. Somehow, during all of the commotion, he and Ice had ended up alone with each other. This must have been Goose’s plan all along. The second he gets Goose alone, he’s throwing his best friend over the ship’s railing. “Tastes like cheap brandy and stale dishwater.”

“Probably is.” They sit in silence for a while before Ice says, “You should go over and talk to your friend. Looks like she could use a dance partner.”

Maverick looks at the bar, where (sure enough) Charlie’s sitting alone. But… “So could you.”

Ice glances over at him, incredulous. “What?”

Maverick finishes his beer and Carole’s, standing up and letting the liquid courage flow through his veins. “You’re not dancing,” he says. He’s grateful his voice doesn’t shake as he extends a hand toward Ice, who’s still seated. “It’s a good song. And neither of us have partners, so…” He shrugs. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Neither can Wolf and Wood. Nothing’s stopping them.” He nods at the men in question, who are dancing clumsily to the jig in the center of the dance floor. “Come on, Ice. Dance with me.”

Ice sizes Maverick up, his gaze cool and assessing, but whatever he sees in Maverick’s expression must convince him, because he accepts Maverick’s hand and slowly gets to his feet — and lets Maverick lead him to the dance floor. “If we’re going to dance,” he says, “we’re going to have to get a bit closer.” Ice takes Maverick’s right hand in his left as his other hand slides to the small of Maverick’s back and pushes them closer together, barely an inch apart. “This alright?”

“Yeah.” Maverick’s having trouble breathing, but he makes himself nod. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

The music stops and another song — even livelier and faster than the one it preceded — begins. Ice bites his lip, uncharacteristically hesitant. “I don’t know the steps.”

“Neither do I,” Maverick admits, but he lets a grin break loose as he hops and does a chassé to the left and then the right, trying to get Ice to move with him. “Don’t think, Kazansky. Just dance.”

They dance. Awkward, ungraceful, nearly falling in their haste to keep to the rhythm of the steps, but they dance. And soon Ice is laughing at Maverick’s attempts to twirl him, beaming brightly enough to outshine the sun, and Maverick’s grinning so hard it kind of hurts. Dancing with Ice makes him feel free, like the air had wrapped him in a hug and scattered him across the starry skies.

They’re in the center of the dance floor now, hopping and chasséing from side to side and twirling around and laughing, still pressed tightly up against each other as the music gets faster and faster. Someone wolf-whistles (probably Hollywood) and another voice yells  _ Yeah Mav! _ (probably Goose), and Maverick starts laughing as Ice twirls him. “I thought I was leading!”

“You’re shit at it, so I took over!”

“Fuck you!” Maverick laughs, and twirls Ice just to make a point, which elicits even more laughter from his dance partner. 

The steps become faster and faster, but Maverick has no inclination to stop now. Nearby, a table gets knocked over as a drunk couple slams into it, but they get up and keep dancing. A space opens up around him and Ice, and people watch them go in circles, clapping in rhythm as the band plays faster and faster. He catches quick glimpses of faces he knows — Chipper and Sundown, Slider with one of the waitresses, Goose and Carole and baby Bradley up on the makeshift stage, even Charlie at the bar counter — but his gaze always comes back to Ice, like a compass pointing due north.

And then the song ends with a flourish, leading to a round of applause from the audience and several bows from the band. Goose and Carole are waving and blowing kisses, and baby Bradley is trying his best to do the same. And Maverick is still pressed up so close to Ice, he can see every one of Ice’s eyelashes, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The tiny birthmark on his jaw. His lips, close enough to kiss.

“You’re not a bad dance partner, Mitchell,” Ice says softly.

“Neither are you, Kazansky.”

For a second he thinks Ice is going to say something, but then the moment between them pops like a soap bubble and Ice releases him. Maverick reluctantly lets go of Ice’s hands, disappointment and dismay threatening to choke him. He thought that maybe this would change things, but…

The rest of the crew is approaching, but before they arrive, Ice leans in and kisses Maverick on the cheek. His lips are warm and soft. “Thanks for the dance, Mav,” he says in an undertone, before letting Slider lead him away, listening to Slider exclaim how he didn’t even know Ice  _ could _ dance.

Maverick just stands there stupidly, his hand on his cheek, right under the spot where Ice had kissed him. He feels like he’s been caught in an undertow, and has no desire to ever get out of it.

* * *

“He  _ fired  _ you?!”

“Yeah,” Bradley says dully. They’re in Phoenix’s apartment over the library, as Bradley hadn’t been in the mood to face the public. “Right in front of half the patients in the hospital. And your dad told me to pack my bags and get the hell out of dodge, and I don’t think it was optional.” Phoenix isn’t taking umbrage, though. She’s…smiling? “What’s with you?”

“He must be desperate if he’s firing you,” Phoenix says. “Especially since he can’t actually do that.”

That throws Bradley for a loop. “What?”

“Here, I’ll show you.” Phoenix bustles out of the kitchen and returns with a copy of the Storybrooke town charter, which she sets down on the table in front of Bradley. Invigorated, she flips through it to the right page. “See? ‘The office of sheriff shall be decided by a city-wide election.’ My father can’t get rid of you, and he can’t pick a new sheriff.”

“Tell that to whoever the hell John Glass is,” Bradley says. “I read in the  _ Daily Mirror  _ that’s who Kendrick is putting up for the job.”

Phoenix remains undeterred. “Not if someone runs against him.”

Bradley’s jaw drops. “You want me to run? I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“I think you would,” Phoenix says. “You’re brave and smart, and people like you, and my father can’t cow you into doing whatever he wants. You’re the Savior, Bradley. I know this is the right thing for you to do. It’s your destiny.”

“Becoming the sheriff of a small town allegedly populated by fairy tale characters is my destiny?”

“You know what I mean, Bradley.”

“Phoenix…” He scrubs a hand down his face, feeling like he’s aged twenty years in the span of a day. “Phoenix, I don't think I can do this. What if your dad rigs the election against me?”

“He’ll probably try.”

“That’s not exactly inspiring, Phoenix.”

Phoenix’s eyes blaze. “You want inspiration?” she says. “Here’s some inspiration for you. My father killed Sheriff Stinger because he went against what my father wanted.”

Bradley’s mouth is very dry. “Your…your father  _ what?” _

“Killed Stinger,” she says. Just as matter of fact as she’d been when she told him about the curse for the first time. “He crushed Stinger’s heart. With magic.”

The only thing he can think of to say is, “B-but I thought this was supposed to be the Land Without Magic. How did your dad…”

“He has magic here,” Phoenix says. “He stole Stinger’s heart in the other world, years before the curse was cast. Stinger was the huntsman my father hired to kill your uncle; he let Maverick go instead, and my father made Stinger into his servant. Into his pet.” Bradley shivers at the very thought. “And he didn’t like that Stinger hired you, I guess. So he got rid of Stinger and now he’s trying to get rid of you. And he will keep killing people, and keep the people of Storybrooke cursed and miserable and suffering for as long as he can. You’re the only one who can stop him, and this is how you can start to be the Savior we need.”

“I’m no Savior, Phoenix. I’m just…I’m just me.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says. “I know. That’s kind of the point.”

* * *

Two Years, Two Months Before The Curse:

The ship is descending into chaos all around him — shouting, blades clashing and clanging together — and it’s all Maverick can do to keep himself focused on the battle before him. The war against the Migs has only ramped up in intensity these last few months; they’ve already lost Cougar, who’d cracked from the stress and resigned his commission to return to his wife and son. And now the  _ TOPGUN _ is surrounded by not one but  _ two _ enemy warships — they’re outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered. But not outplanned. They can still win the day. He just needs to figure out how.

He and Goose and Ice and Slider have been cornered by Migs on the quarter deck, and Maverick does his best to watch Goose’s back and pray that Slider will do the same for Ice.  _ If we get out of this alive, I swear I’ll tell him how I feel about him. This has gone on long enough.  _

Maverick dispatches one of the Migs with a well-placed parry and stabs him in the chest, and Goose kicks another one right onto Slider’s sword. Ice is ruthless as he fights one of the more talented Solmig soldiers, but he doesn’t go for the kill — he seems content to draw things out and wait for the right moment, and Maverick curses. “Damn it, Ice, kill him already!”

“Give me another fucking second, Maverick!” Ice snaps, but his brief moment of distraction is enough for the Mig to dodge Ice’s riposte and slam the butt of his sword against Ice’s temple so hard that Ice collapses to the deck, swearing and clutching his head. But Maverick doesn’t have time to reflect on that for long, because the Mig jumps right back into the fray.

It happens in less than a second, but every beat stretches for what feels like years, suspended in time. How the Mig dodges Slider’s attempt to kill him. How the Mig slams into Goose, knocking them both through the railing. How Maverick screams and lunges to grab Goose’s hand — and how the motion sends all three of them overboard.

Almost. Maverick just manages to grab onto one of the ropes dangling over the edge of the ship on the way down, stopping his fall, and holds on tightly to Goose with the other hand. His muscles are screaming in agony, but he holds on with everything he has. He won’t let go. He won’t.

“Mav!”

“Goose, hang on! Hang on, Goose, I’ve got you. I got you.” Below them, the Mig floats facedown in the ocean, and above them, the battle rages on. “Goose, you gotta grab the rope. Grab it with your other hand. I’ll swing you to it, and then we can climb back up and help.”

“Okay.” Goose sounds frantic, on the edge, but when Maverick looks down, his friend’s expression is resolute. “Count of three.”

At three, Maverick uses all of his strength to swing Goose to the side, and Goose grabs onto the rope, clinging to it, releasing Maverick’s hand so he can hang on. “Thank fuck,” Maverick says, gripping the rope with both of his hands. He’ll have rope burn tomorrow, but it’s a small price to pay for both of them staying alive. “Alright, come on, let’s—”

Years later, he can’t say if it was the strain of supporting two people, or another enemy soldier slamming into the railing, or just pure terrible luck. But whatever the cause, the rope frays and snaps, sending them plummeting down, down, down, screaming all the way, and then—

A whiteout of bubbles. Sinking. Struggling. Swimming up with arms and legs that felt thoroughly bruised, if not sprained or broken, wondering if he’s actually still alive. Gasping for breath upon reaching the surface, gulping down air and trying desperately to stay afloat.

“Goose!” The wind had ripped all of the air from his lungs, and his voice is a hoarse, terrified wheeze. “Goose, where — Goose!” A few yards away, he can see someone in a Royal Navy uniform floating, drifting on the waves, and relief threatens to make him shake. “Goose!”

But there’s something wrong. Goose isn’t talking, and when Maverick finally reaches him and drags him onto a floating piece of plywood nearby, he’s not…he’s not moving, his face is still and streaked with red, and his neck, his neck, it’s… He’s — he’s…  _ No. No, no, nononono— _

“Goose.” Tears are streaming down Maverick’s face. He’s untethered, he’s lost to the world, floating out to sea. Goose isn’t — but this can’t be real, this can’t be right. Not his best friend, his family. Not his first real friend. It can’t…he can’t just be… “No, Goose, please. Please no. Please not him, not him,  _ damn it Goose no please not you, please, please…” _

Someone above him is screaming his name, and the Migs are retreating, and still someone else is coming down the side of the ship in a rescue rowboat. Maverick just closes his eyes and clutches Goose to his chest, letting the noise wash over him like a wave.

“Mav,” comes another voice, closer to him this time. Chipper, maybe. “Mav, you’ve gotta let him go. Come on, Mav, we’ve got him.”

_ I should have gotten him. It was my job to look after him, just like it was his to look after me. I should have killed that Mig when I had the chance. I should’ve held on tighter. I should have…I should have…  _

Goose Bradshaw is dead, and it’s all Maverick’s fault.

* * *

“Everyone deserves to feel safe in their own homes,” Kendrick is saying as Bradley pushes through the crowd in front of Town Hall, Phoenix right beside him. Kendrick’s holding a press conference to officially give his pick the sheriff’s position — too bad Bradley’s got other plans. “That’s why John Glass is my choice for the post of sheriff.” He gestures at the man beside him, a handsome blond around Bradley’s age with a disarming smile, who waves at the crowd. 

“Do you know him?” Bradley asks Phoenix in an undertone, and she shakes her head.

“I don’t know everybody in town,” she admits. “But he doesn’t look familiar. Either way, he’s definitely one of my father’s cronies.”

“This man has put the needs of Storybrooke above his own for as long as any of us can remember, as the chief editor of the Storybrooke  _ Daily Mirror,”  _ Kendrick concludes, and Bradley knows it’s now or never. “Please welcome your new sheriff!”

Kendrick is about to attach the sheriff’s badge on Glass’s shirt when Bradley says, “Hang on a second, Mayor Kendrick.”

All the reporters and townspeople gathered start murmuring, surprised at the interruption. Kendrick just looks irritated. “Mr. Bradshaw, this is not appropriate.”

“The only thing not appropriate is this ceremony.” He climbs up the steps and turns to the crowd. “Mayor Kendrick does not have the power to appoint John Glass to be the sheriff.”

Kendrick scoffs. “The town charter clearly states the mayor shall appoint—”

“A candidate,” Bradley cuts in. “You can appoint a candidate. It calls for an election.”

“The term ‘candidate’ is applied loosely.”

“No, it isn’t. It requires a vote. And guess what, Mayor Kendrick? I’m running.”

“That’s fine,” Glass says, still smiling. He almost looks amused. “So am I.”

“With my full support,” Kendrick adds. “I suppose we will all learn a little something about the will of the people. If they’re willing to elect a known quantity over a recently fired deputy.”

Bradley keeps his expression cool, ice cold. In the crowd, the reporters are scribbling down notes, Phoenix is grinning, and even Susan is smiling proudly. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess we will.”

* * *

Two Years, One Month Before The Curse:

_ Dear Carole: _

_ I’m so sorry, but— _

Maverick crumples up the paper and tries again, ignoring the way his hand is shaking. He’s put this off long enough. He needs to do this. 

_ Dear Carole: _

_ A month ago, our ship was attacked by the Migs. I wish I could tell you we all made it out unscathed, but— _

No, that’s not right either. She doesn’t need to know the context; that’s not important. What will matter to Carole is that Maverick couldn’t save her husband from dying, even after everything Goose did for him. Bradley will have to grow up without a father because of Maverick.

“Mitchell.”

Maverick stiffens at the sound of Ice’s voice, but doesn’t turn around or answer. After he got out of the infirmary last week, he’s been keeping his head down and speaking only when spoken to and refusing to engage in battles or training. Everyone’s been keeping their distance, letting him have his distance. Everyone except Ice. 

“Viper says you can send your letter at the next port,” Ice says. “We’ll be docking in a couple weeks.”

“I’m not sending a letter,” Maverick says. It’s not until after he says that that the answer comes to him. “I’m going to go to Carole and Goose’s place when we dock. Tell Carole and Bradley myself.”

Ice takes a long breath. “When will you get back?”

“I don’t know.”  _ I don’t even know if I want to come back. If I deserve to come back. _

“Maverick,” Ice says, and then he pauses. Maverick is suddenly reminded of the first few days after he woke up in the infirmary, when everything was a blur of grief and pain and cold, and how Ice sat next to him and said, stilted and awkward but no less sincere,  _ Mitchell, I’m sorry about Goose. Everyone liked him. I’m sorry.  _ “I know how you felt about Goose, and what he meant to you. But he wouldn’t want you to quit serving or quit living just because you feel guilty for something that wasn’t your fault.”

“You don’t know how I feel, Kazansky,” Maverick snaps, itching for a fight. For something, anything, that can make him feel like he’s not slowly sinking into the ocean with his best friend’s dead body in his arms.

“Maybe not,” Ice says. “But I know you.”

Maverick stares at his hands. It’s true that Ice knows him almost as well as Goose had by now — and deep down, beyond the grief and the guilt that have him in a vice grip, he knows Ice is right. He owes it to Goose to keep serving, to keep doing what Goose had loved, to keep Goose’s memory alive. It’s just a question of whether or not he has the strength to try.

By the time Maverick turns around his chair to answer, Ice is gone.

* * *

The hospital’s quiet at night, especially since visiting hours had ended at six, but Pete doesn’t really mind. After a long day of teaching twenty rowdy fifth graders and endless staff meetings that had lasted until dinner, the quiet’s exactly what he needs.

Pete’s got the book that Phoenix Kendrick had given him balanced on his lap, open to the story she’d bookmarked, but he hasn’t started yet. His gaze keeps flickering to the comatose man, who the nurses had said had been there for ages. His hair is dark blond, shaggy and wild and ending somewhere near his chin. He’s got a strong jaw, dotted with stubble, and a birthmark on his left cheek. Light blond eyelashes. Muscular arms. He wonders what color John Doe’s eyes are. If they’re as striking as the rest of him.

_ Striking, _ Pete thinks, and gives a laugh.  _ That’s old-fashioned. I must be more tired than I thought. _

“Hey,” he says. John Doe doesn’t stir, doesn’t reply. Not that he’d expected otherwise. “So…hi. Monica Kendrick usually reads to you, but…I’m filling in for her today. She says you left off here?”  _ Why am I asking him a question? It’s not like he can answer. _ He takes John Doe’s hand, like Phoenix had told him to do. She’d claimed it would help ‘further their connection,’ whatever that means. “I’ve never done this before, so. Uh. Bear with me.”

He didn’t think that he’d enjoy the story — he’d expected fairy tales given the title  _ Once Upon A Time, _ and fairy tales aren’t really his thing — but he quickly gets swept up in it, in the adventures of the HMS  _ TOPGUN  _ and its crew. Right now the  _ TOPGUN  _ has arrived to rescue the HMS  _ Layton  _ from ships from the kingdom of Solmig, and he loses himself in the description of sword-fighting and teamwork and succeeding against all odds. Of Maverick, the prince in disguise who’s a little too dangerous for Pete’s liking, finding the courage to rejoin the fray and saving the life of another lieutenant. Iceman. Ice.

_ “As the crew of the  _ TOPGUN  _ raucously celebrated their victory,”  _ he reads, _ “overjoyed that they had all lived to see another day, Maverick found himself being shoved through the crowd, enduring numerous hugs and pats on the back before coming to a stop in front of Iceman Kazansky. The lieutenant — the man who had taught him how to properly wield a sword, who had comforted him after Goose’s death, whom he had been in love with since the moment he set foot on the ship — met his gaze. ‘You saved my life.’” _

_ “And Maverick nodded, for he had, and he would do it again, any time and any place, no matter the risk. And then Ice’s face broke into a smile that was like the sun coming out from behind storm clouds, that lit up the very sky above them, and he said, ‘You can be my wingman anytime.’” _

_ Wingman. _ Strange word. And yet...it resonates within Pete like nothing else he’s ever heard before, filling him with warmth and pride.

_ “‘And you can be mine,’ Maverick said with a grin of his own, and then, before the adrenaline thrumming through his veins could fail him, stepped forward and closed the distance between them, embracing Ice tightly. _

_ “Ice embraced him as well, and when they drew back in unison, their eyes met, and it was as if the entire world had faded away except for them. Ice took Maverick’s face in his hands, moved in, and then paused. He checked himself for the briefest of seconds, looking into Maverick’s eyes as if making sure they were on the same page. And then Ice swooped in and kissed him. _

_ “His lips were full and soft, and Maverick’s surprise stiffened his body for a moment before he looped his arms around Iceman’s neck and eagerly returned the kiss. They didn’t need words to express what they felt in their hearts, for it was here, in the aftermath of the hardest battle they had faced yet, that their love was born; where they knew, no matter what would happen, they would always—” _

The hand in his twitches.

Pete’s heart stops. His hand just moved. John Doe’s hand just moved. And he’s stirring now, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth moving slightly like he’s trying to say something. To say someone’s name.

“Hey,” he says. He sets the book aside, leaning in. Holding John Doe’s hand even tighter. “Hey, are you…are you waking up? Can you hear me?”

John Doe makes a soft noise, maybe a groan, and then his eyes slowly, ever so slowly, flutter open.

“Hi,” Pete says stupidly.

John Doe’s eyes meet his, and it sends a jolt down Pete’s spine, through his heart. His eyes are blue. A pale, striking blue. “Hi,” he says — or tries to say. His voice is so hoarse that Pete can barely understand him. “What happened?”

“You were in a coma, you just — you just woke up.” Pete swears and drops John Doe’s hand, jumping up to press the call button. “Shit, sorry, I — the doctors will be right with you, they’ll explain everything. Just hang on.”

John Doe is still looking at him, groggy and confused. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.” Privately, Pete thinks that he would have remembered meeting someone as handsome as this John Doe, but he forces the thought aside. “Why?”

“You were in my dreams.”


	7. Vote for Bradshaw

Twenty-Eight Years Ago: 

Bradley’s not supposed to be here. Mama always told him never to go into the woods by himself, at least not until he’s older, and now here he is, all by himself in a far away place. He’d waited all night for Mama by the tree he’d woken up next to — the tree that the fairy-made wardrobe had transported him to — because he knows she wouldn’t just leave him here, but now the sun is rising and he’s still all alone. Hot tears trickle down his face, and he brings his thumb up to his mouth. _Mama, where are you?_

_I love you, Bradley Bradshaw. Find us._

Bradley sniffles, using his sleeve to wipe his nose so he won’t get his hands dirty. Mama had said to find her, so he’ll find her, and Uncle Mav and Uncle Ice too. He’s four years old; he’s a big boy now. He can do this. 

He shoulders the pack Mama had given him and sets off at a sprint — he doesn’t want to stay in this place by himself any longer than he has to. Lucky for him, it’s not that cold now that the sun’s up, and he follows the winding dirt path out of the center of the forest. These trees are strange, too; he’s never seen anything like them before. And there are strange noises all around him — strange-sounding birds, strange rustling noises from the bushes, and even stranger honking and rushing noises from far away.

“Kid?”

Bradley turns around to see a concerned-looking couple staring at him. The woman has puffy blonde hair, and the man beside her is dressed all in skintight black and purple clothes, with strange-looking shoes. But they’re still the first people he’s seen in forever, and they look nice, and he can’t stop the tears that start falling. “Have you seen my Mama?”

“I — your mother?” The woman exchanges a look with the man that he doesn’t understand. “Where did you last see her, kid? How old are you?”

Bradley holds up four fingers. “Mama was ‘sposed to come with me through the wardrobe but I can’t find her. Have you seen her?”

“Through the what?”

“The _wardrobe,”_ Bradley says, frustrated. The tears come faster. “I want my Mama.”

“Alright, alright,” the woman soothes. Bradley can tell that she’s thinking fast. “Come on. We’ll get you out of here, get you something to eat…and then we’ll see if we can find your mother.” She crouches down and reaches her hand out to him. “Okay?” 

Bradley manages a nod, and comes forward to take her hand. “Okay.”

* * *

 _Ex Jailbird Bradley Bradshaw Announces Run For Sheriff,_ boasts the newspaper on the table between him and Phoenix, and Bradley contemplates homicide. “How the hell did they find out about this?” he demands. “Those records were supposed to be sealed!”

“Right, because no one has _ever_ hacked into juvenile records before,” Phoenix says with an eye roll, taking a sip of her orange juice. Bradley frowns, but before he can argue — or complain more — Phoenix adds, “It’s not like you did anything terrible. All you did was steal some watches, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point,” Bradley says, grinding his teeth. “I didn’t steal them, I was set up, and this article makes me look like I’m some…some criminal mastermind or something. And look at this.” He jabs at the article below the one about him. _“John Glass, editor of the_ Daily Mirror _and sheriff candidate,_ _was seen today at the animal shelter with a box of kittens he found abandoned near the toll bridge during his morning jog.”_

“My father probably set that up,” Phoenix says dismissively. “Who would abandon a box of kittens by the toll bridge? It’s not like they don't know where the shelter is.”

“Still,” Bradley says. “They used my eighteen year old mug shot and a picture of him holding abandoned kittens in the same issue of the paper, on the same damn page. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

“You’ll just have to show people you’re a worthy candidate,” Phoenix says. “We’ll make buttons and campaign posters, call people up. We can do this.”

Susan arrives in the middle of Phoenix’s sentence, setting down their lunches and Bradley’s hot chocolate. “She’s right, Bradley,” she says with a kind smile. “And I’ll be happy to withhold people’s orders until they promise to vote for you.”

“I think that might be a little illegal,” Bradley says with a slight smile of his own, “but thanks, Susan. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, honey.”

Before Bradley or Phoenix can say anything else, Pete Matthews bursts into the diner, his hair a mess, the collar of his shirt askew. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night as he collapses into a chair, and Bradley automatically stands up, but Susan beats him to the punch. “Pete,” she says, clearly worried. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Pete nods, looking like he’s only half paying attention. “Just a coffee, Susan,” he says. “A large one, to go. Please.”

Susan nods and writes it down on her ever-present notepad, and Phoenix tentatively approaches Pete, which means Bradley has to follow — not just because he’s worried about Pete too, but because she tends to get starry-eyed around him and the last thing Pete Matthews needs right now is to hear about the curse. “Mr. Matthews?” she says. “Are you sure you’re alright? I — how was your shift last night? Was it productive?”

Pete lets out a breathless laugh. Everyone in the diner is staring at him now. “You could say that.”

Phoenix frowns. “Why?”

“That patient,” Pete says. “The one you had me read to, remember him? The John Doe?”

A shiver goes down Bradley’s spine. Phoenix straightens so suddenly that she looks like she’d been stuck with a pin. “Yes?” she says, not even trying not to sound eager. Bradley inches forward. “What about him?”

“He’s awake.”

* * *

Eighteen Years Ago: 

This is his fourth foster home in as many years, and Bradley has long since stopped being enthusiastic about the prospect of a fresh start. Hard to be optimistic when you’d been shuffled around your entire life, and the one time you had been adopted, you’d gotten returned to the foster system because that family had had a biological child of their own and didn’t want a scruffy little boy with a checkered past. 

There are four other boys in the house and three girls, and they all have to keep the house afloat while their foster parents alternate between working and drinking themselves into a stupor. Bradley’s the smallest and the youngest, so he pretty much keeps to himself and stays out of everybody’s way — which is just the way he likes it. 

“Hey.” Bradley stops washing the dishes and turns to see Gordie, one of the oldest boys in the house, accompanied by Jason and Luke. “Can you keep a secret, Bradshaw?”

Curious, Bradley nods, and Gordie pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket. “Whoa,” he says, stunned. “Where’d you get that?”

“I stole it from the old lady’s sock drawer,” Gordie boasts. “It’s enough to buy us all bus tickets out of here.”

“You’re leaving?” Bradley says. “When?”

“Right now. Jason stole the keys to their car; we can go anywhere. You wanna come?”

Bradley hesitates, but the possibility of a future without the Raskinds is enough to sway him. “Just a minute,” he says. He jogs up the stairs and grabs his pack — the same one they’d found him carrying in the forest all those years ago — and fills it with his belongings before he sprints back into the kitchen. “I’m in. Let’s go.”

* * *

“I don’t understand what happened either,” Pete is saying as the three of them walk quickly down the busy hospital corridor. “I was reading the book like you told me to, Miss Kendrick — ah, Phoenix — and then he...he woke up. Then the doctors wouldn’t let me see him after that since they had to run some tests, but I thought I’d come here during my lunch break and see if…if he’s alright.”

Bradley stops in front of the door and wipes his hands on his pants, uncharacteristically nervous. He has no idea what to expect — hell, his only real memory of the man Phoenix claims John Doe is came from the Book — but Phoenix has no such reservations: she pulls the door open and walks right in.

John Doe glances over at them from where he’s sitting up in bed, listening to Dr. Sink. His hair is dark blond and shaggy, ending just below his ears, and he’s clean-shaven. There’s a birthmark on his left cheek, and his eyes are a pale, striking blue — and they narrow in confusion when he sees the three of them standing in the doorway to his room. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Bradley somehow manages to keep his voice steady. “I’m Bradley Bradshaw, Deputy Sheriff of Storybrooke. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

“No, I was just finishing up checking his vitals,” Dr. Sink says, standing up from his chair. “He’s made quite the remarkable recovery for someone who was comatose for so long.”

“How long is that, exactly?” Phoenix says. Dr. Sink looks flustered.

“I, uh — huh. I’m sure I had the information for that somewhere.” He glances over at John Doe, who looks politely bemused by everything happening around him. “I’ll go see if that information is in our system somewhere else — I’ll be right back.”

He hurries out of the room before John Doe can reply, and once he’s gone, Pete hesitantly steps into John Doe’s line of vision. “Hi,” he says. “Long time no see. Well, not that long, but uh — how…how are you feeling?”

“Physically, I’m on the mend,” John Doe says with a smile that flickers out before it gets far. “My memory, uh, is another issue. Doc says it might take time to come back. If at all.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Phoenix says. “But…until your memories come back, maybe you can make some new ones. And some new friends.” She runs a hand through her hair, blushing a little. “I’m Phoenix Kendrick, and you already know Bradley. And this is—”

“Pete,” Pete cuts in. “Matthews. Uh, Pete Matthews.”

John Doe smiles at them, though his expression seems particularly soft when he looks at Pete — if a little unsure. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“How touching,” drawls another voice: one that immediately sets Bradley’s teeth on edge. He turns around to see Mayor Edward Kendrick himself standing in the doorway, accompanied by Dr. Sink and John Glass, who’s smiling in a way that makes Bradley want to punch him in the face. 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Kendrick arches his eyebrows. “I received word that one of our longest term coma patients woke up at last, and you expect me not to be here?” he says. “I know everything that goes on in this town, Deputy Bradshaw. Oh, my apologies. _Ex_ Deputy.”

John Doe frowns. “Ex Deputy?”

“He was fired for insubordination,” Glass says easily, stepping forward. With his long peacoat, sheriff’s badge, neat blond hair, and bright smile, he casts an aura of calm authority much better than Bradley does in his sweatshirt and jeans. “I’m the interim sheriff, until the election next week. Then it’ll be official.”

“Unless you lose,” Phoenix snaps.

“Right,” Glass says skeptically, rolling his eyes. “Unless I lose. Anyways, I thought I’d escort the mayor here to see you, Mr. Doe. Or should I say Mr. Nolan?” He reaches into his coat and pulls out a case file, setting it down on the stand in front of John Doe’s bed. “I did some research of my own, once the mayor told me about your...situation, and according to the license and registration found at the scene, your name’s Tom Nolan.” He grins. “Hope that helps.”

“License and registration?” Pete repeats. John Doe — Tom Nolan — just looks even more confused. “What are you talking about?”

Kendrick glares at Pete. “Not that it’s any of your business, Mr. Matthews,” he says disparagingly, “but Mr. Nolan here went into a coma following a rather serious car accident. Thus the presence of the license and registration at the scene.”

Bradley knows a lie when he sees one, but he doesn’t want to make Tom any more confused than he already is — nor, as depressing as the thought is, does he want to lose potential voters in Pete and Tom to John Glass. “I see,” he says. Then, because he can’t stop himself: “Must have been an accident, then. The fact that he was listed here as a John Doe for so long.”

Kendrick looks at Bradley like he’s a piece of shit he found stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “Right,” he says coolly. “Exactly. And on that note — Sheriff Glass, would you do me the favor of escorting my daughter and the former deputy out of here?” He levels a glare at Pete again, who’d moved closer to Tom. Kendrick’s eyes shine with fury, but his tone is calm. “And Mr. Matthews, I suggest you return to the elementary school before your lunch break ends. I’d hate to see you lose your job.”

“Go,” Tom says to Pete, who still looks hesitant in the face of a thinly veiled threat like that. “I’ll see you later.”

“You can count on it,” Pete says, and Tom smiles as Glass escorts Pete, Bradley, and Phoenix from the room.

Bradley, however, isn’t about to let Kendrick and Glass go without giving them a piece of his mind. “I saw the story you wrote about me in the paper, Glass,” he says loudly. “Groundbreaking journalism. Do you ask ‘how high’ when the mayor tells you to jump, too?”

Glass keeps walking without any indication he’d heard, Phoenix and Pete with him, leaving Bradley alone with the mayor. Kendrick just smiles. “Feeling a bit heated now that the truth about you has come out, Mr. Bradshaw?” he says. “I did warn you about the danger of running against a known quantity. And I can’t imagine that anyone will want to elect a former juvenile delinquent as sheriff, either, so your ambitions are bound to come to nothing.”

“Those records were supposed to be _sealed.”_

“Oops.” A shrug, and then Kendrick turns to walk away. 

Bradley sees red. Reaching out quickly, he grabs the mayor by the arm and pulls him around so that they’re face to face. “You must not know me very well, Mayor Kendrick, but I don’t respond all that well to threats. You think you can scare me into leaving? Too bad, because that only makes me want to stay more. You tell your boy Glass to expect a fight, because I’m damn well going to be elected sheriff.”

* * *

Fourteen Years Ago: 

“Are you shitting me?”

“Listen, Bradshaw—”

“No, Gordie, what the fuck? What the fuck is this?” Bradley brandishes the wanted poster he found at the post office at Gordie, who just looks bored. “I didn’t even know they still made these things. When did this happen?”

Gordie huffs out a breath. “Remember when we were in Tempe?” he says. “While you were working at that fried chicken place, I was working at Juvelisto’s, that high-end jewelry place. The manager was a drunk. He would forget to lock the case to the real expensive watches.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“Look, you tell me how the fuck I’m supposed to resist a case full of watches worth more money than my kidneys!” Gordie snaps. “I grabbed a couple cases and hopped on a train to Portland to meet you and Jason and Luke. The store had insurance, and I figured they would drop the case after a while.”

“Well, the manager might’ve been a drunk, but the security cameras are stone cold sober,” Jason says. “Forget Tallahassee. You need to go to Canada and stay there ‘til the heat dies down.”

“That’s fine,” Gordie says. “I like maple syrup.”

Luke laughs, but Bradley shakes his head. He might like Gordie the least out of all of his former foster brothers, but they’re still brothers. He’s not about to let Gordie spend the rest of his life in Canada with his head down. “If you go, we’ll all go.”

“You out of your mind?” Luke says to Bradley. “You think crossing the border’s gonna be easy?”

“We’ll get fake I.D.s and passports—”

“Those cost money,” Jason cuts in. “We have a stolen car. The most obvious stolen car in the world, by the way. Why the hell did you have to steal Raskind’s yellow bug and not his sedan, Gordie?”

“I’ve got class,” Gordie says with a smirk. Luke rolls his eyes. “Anyway, the kid’s right. We can all go. We’ll make it legit, we’ll take a V.I.N. number off another car—”

“You think we’ve got the means of getting another V.I.N. number? It took us three months to get fake social security cards, man!”

“Wait,” Bradley says. “No, seriously guys, wait. What if I go and get the watches out of the locker? No one’s looking for me. We can fence them and then we’d have the money to do whatever we want. We can go wherever we want too, right? We could change our identities and go to Tallahassee or wherever the fuck, and hide out there for as long as we need to.”

Gordie laughs. “So you want to steal the watches to help me get away with stealing the watches?”

“Yeah,” Bradley says. “That’s exactly what I want to do.”

Jason, Luke, and Gordie exchange a look that Bradley doesn’t understand, but they all turn back to look at him before he can analyze it further. “You think you can get away with it?”

Bradley grins, relieved. “I know I can.”

* * *

“It looks like we’ve found ourselves in quite the predicament,” Glass says, and Edward wants to slap him. “My opponent seems to be more popular among the people than I previously believed.”

“You know as well as I do that peasants flock to shiny things,” Edward says dismissively. “Worry not. The story you wrote about him will do the trick; Bradley Bradshaw will not be sheriff. Not in my town.”

Glass leans back in his chair, briefly admiring his reflection in the mirror he’s holding before turning his gaze back to Edward. “Are you going to resort to rigging the election, Your Majesty? Or is it Mayor Kendrick now? These titles are dreadfully confusing.”

Edward rolls his eyes. “Don’t be coy,” he says. “And don’t be foolish. Why on earth would I need to rig this election?”

Glass shrugs. “Probably because I’m not the ‘known quantity’ you claim I am.”

“The only ones who are aware of that are you and myself,” Edward says. _And my foolish daughter, though she knows better by now than to spout nonsense about my curse in public._ “Everyone else believes differently. And when it comes to a choice between you and a former juvenile delinquent — between you and a stranger — I don’t think our dear Mr. Bradshaw will offer you any competition at all.”

“If you say so,” Glass says magnanimously. Edward rolls his eyes again, wishing that he had drawn up the curse to allow him enough magic to stop Glass’s impertinence in its tracks. “Though if I may offer my own opinion?”

“I have no doubt you shall anyways.”

“There will be no need to rig an election,” Glass says, “if there is not one to begin with.”

Edward scoffs. “You are aware that killing the Savior would shatter the curse, do you not?” Oh, the curse had weakened since Bradshaw had arrived, but not nearly enough that it would matter to the heroes. He doesn’t even mind that Thomas Kazansky had woken up from the coma the curse had placed him in; as long as his cursed counterpart and Peter’s cursed counterpart are kept apart, everything will be just fine.

Glass smirks. “Who said anything about _killing_ him, Your Majesty?” he says, and outlines an idea.

 _Well now._ Edward smiles. _There’s a thought._

* * *

“There’s going to be a debate?”

“According to the posters my father put up all over town, yeah,” Phoenix says, bouncing a little to keep warm. They’d gone to an Italian place at the edge of town, in the suburbs near the mayor’s mansion — Bradley’s idea, since they never got to have the dinner they planned on because of Stinger’s death — and Bradley had insisted on driving her back to the library so she wouldn’t have to walk as far. “This is a good thing, Bradley! This is your chance to show everyone you’re the perfect candidate. You can talk about your plans for the town, and your background, and—”

“Jail time and juvie records?”

“Don’t be cute,” Phoenix says, her cheeks reddening from the cold. “You know what I meant. This is your chance! You’ll go up on stage at City Hall and give a kickass speech and finish with a ‘Vote for Bradshaw!’, and before you know it, we’ll have a new sheriff in town.”

“Technically I think I’m the old sheriff,” Bradley teases. “Unless you’re thinking about voting for Glass.”

“Not a chance.”

They arrive at his car, and Bradley palms his pockets, searching for his keys. “Well, I’m glad to have you on my side,” he says, smiling at her. “As a voter and a friend.”

Phoenix smiles back at him, and it sends shivers down his spine — startling him badly enough that he drops his keys. “Sorry,” he says, blushing a little himself. “Just a sec.”

He kneels down to grab them, only to find a box underneath his car. It’s about the size of a shoebox, though metal, with wires sticking out of it and an embedded digital timer reading _06._ Then _05._ Then _04._

_Oh fuck._

“Bradley, what—”

Bradley barely manages to scramble backward and tackle Phoenix onto the front lawn behind them before the car bomb explodes.

* * *

It takes thirty minutes after the bomb goes off for the adrenaline to leave Bradley’s system. The entire street is crowded with paramedics and firefighters and reporters and civilians, everyone completely out of their element. Luckily, neither he nor Phoenix had been seriously injured — not that that had stopped Kendrick from hauling Phoenix to the closest ambulance and demanding that she get the best treatment possible the second he’d arrived — and neither had anyone else. The only victim is his car, and a lump rises in his throat at the thought. The one constant in his life, destroyed beyond repair. Gone forever. 

“Did you really save the mayor’s daughter from that car bomb?”

Bradley looks up to see another reporter from the _Daily Mirror_ standing before him, a young woman that he doesn’t know. “Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat and stands up so they can be on eye level with each other. “Yeah, I did.”

“Wow,” the reporter says, beaming as she lifts her camera. “Can I get a shot of you and the victim?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Glass snaps, striding toward the two of them. “Are you trying to hand this election to him?”

The young woman just looks confused. “But it’s _news,_ sir.”

“He’s the competition, you idiot,” Glass says derisively. “Watch what you print.”

“Maybe you ought to be the one watching what you’re doing,” Bradley says before he can lose his courage. Everyone’s looking at him now: Phoenix and Kendrick and even Susan, Sherry, Miriam, Pete, and Charlie, all of whom had just arrived on the scene. “I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t feel all that comfortable living in a town with a sheriff who couldn’t put a stop to something as dangerous as a bomb being planted under someone’s car.”

Glass scoffs, but Bradley can tell his words have riled him. “And you think you could’ve done better?”

“You’re goddamn right,” Bradley says. “I’d do anything to protect the people of this town. Because that’s what a good person is supposed to do.” _That’s what the Savior is supposed to do._

Glass’s face goes puce, and Kendrick looks like he’d sucked on a rotten lemon. But Phoenix is smiling, and her eyes are shining, and honestly, that makes it all worth it.

“I’m going to begin my investigation,” Glass says tightly.

“You do that,” Bradley says, and the second Glass storms off, Bradley finds himself surrounded by people.

“Did you really rescue Monica Kendrick!”

“He did! Everyone saw him save her just before the bomb went off, it was _crazy._ He’s a hero!”

“Mr. Bradshaw, do you think this will impact your chances of winning the election?”

That gives him pause. “Honestly?” he says. “I don't care about my chances, and I didn’t save Monica Kendrick just so I could look like a hero. I’d do it again, no matter the circumstances, no matter the person. Because that’s what good people do. That’s what a sheriff should do, so…” Bradley tries for a grin, and the camera flashes. “Vote for Bradshaw.”

* * *

Fourteen Years Ago: 

_The number you are trying to reach is out of service. If you think you’ve reached this message in error…_

“Damn right I’ve reached this message in error,” Bradley snaps, fed up with this stupid phone. He cuts the call and looks around, hoping that Jason, Luke, and Gordie will appear any minute with a fantastic explanation for why they were late. They’d agreed that Gordie and Jason and Luke would take the watches (worth twenty thousand dollars!) and go to meet the fence, and they’d meet Bradley with the money at nine o’clock sharp in the parking structure by the tracks so they could all get the hell out of town. They’d even given Bradley a watch of his own so he could be sure of the time. Where the hell are they?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but you’ve been set up.” Bradley whirls around to see a cop standing in the parking garage, aiming a gun at Bradley’s chest. The safety clicks off. “Hands above your head, sir.”

“What? Why?”

“Possession of stolen goods,” the cop barks. “Left you holding.”

“I’ve got nothing.”

The cop stares at him, but doesn’t lower his gun. “Sorry to tell you,” he says, even managing to sound a little apologetic, “but your boys took off. Probably in Canada by now. One of ‘em called in a tip — told us to take a look at the surveillance footage at the train station.” He nods at Bradley’s wrist. “Give me the watch, kid.”

Had the cop stabbed him with a rusty dagger, it would have hurt less. Tears of humiliation and betrayal burn Bradley’s eyes — but not shock. He should have seen this coming. Everyone leaves him: parents, relatives, friends. Why should his former foster brothers be any different? He unfastens the watch and shoves it at the cop, who takes it.

“You know your rights?”

Bradley gives a shaky nod. “Yeah.”

“Good. Turn around.” Bradley does, and feels the coldness of handcuffs click shut around his wrists. “Where’s the rest of the watches?”

“Gone,” Bradley bites out. “They’re gone. They’re not coming back.”

The cop seems to sense he’s talking about more than just the watches, and his grip on Bradley’s shoulder is almost apologetic too. “Let’s go, kid,” he says.

Heartbroken, and with no other options remaining, Bradley follows.

* * *

“Uh — I don’t know. M?”

“One of them,” Tom says, and writes the letter M on the first space of the second word. The first word has a T in the third space, and the second word now reads MATT____. “Get it yet?”

Pete laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Though I gotta say, I’m a little embarrassed. Almost got hanged on my own name.”

Tom grins, and leans forward to write the remaining letters in. They’d run out of scrap paper, so now they’re playing hangman in the margins of today’s newspaper, which boasts all about how Bradley Bradshaw had rescued Monica Kendrick a few days back. The rumor is that Mayor Kendrick is livid, though why Pete doesn’t know. _You’d think he’d be happy his daughter wasn’t blown to bits._ “Don’t worry, I never would’ve let you hang. I would’ve added a smile, a hat. Maybe a sword.”

“A sword?” Pete repeats, grinning too. “What am I, a pirate?”

“Sure. Isn’t that every little boy’s dream? Being a pirate when they grow up?”

“I think I’ve always wanted to be a teacher,” Pete says, though he’s a little worried that he can’t remember anything specific about his childhood dreams, even when he concentrates. _Then again, it’s been a million years since then. Can’t blame myself for not being able to remember the insignificant._ “Besides, I get seasick way too easily. What about you?”

“I, uh…” Tom’s smile fades, and he ducks his head, fiddling a little with the pen in his hand. “I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Pete wants to hit himself. “Right. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

On impulse, Pete reaches out and takes Tom’s free hand, squeezing it. Normally he’d never do something like this — especially to someone he barely knows — but he can tell Tom needs the comfort. And it’s easy, being the one doing the comforting. Being around Tom in general is easy. “It’ll come back,” he promises. “I mean, Dr. Sink says he’s discharging you at the end of the week. That means you’re making progress, right?”

“Physically, yeah,” Tom concedes. Dr. Sink had said about a hundred times what a miracle it was for Tom to be recovering so quickly, which is definitely good news. The last thing Tom needs is atrophied muscles and permanent paralysis on top of amnesia. “Memory-wise, not so much.”

“Well, you’re making new memories just fine.”

Tom smiles at him, a little shy. “Maybe I’ll like these better.”

Pete’s embarrassed by how much that makes him blush, but he’s too touched to care. Nobody’s ever said anything like that to him before, at least not that he can remember. And then he catches sight of the wedding ring on his hand — on the hand that’s holding Tom’s — and retracts his hand like it’s been burnt. “So, uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “You want to play again?”

“Can I guess this time too?”

Pete almost jumps out of his skin. “Charlie,” he says, turning in his chair. “Hey. What — what’re you doing here?”

“I said I’d pick you up after work so we could get dinner,” Charlie says, frowning. _Shit, is it seven already?_ She’s wearing her best pantsuit, and her hair falls in perfect waves to her shoulders. She looks like she’s spent the day taking names and kicking ass in court, and it makes Pete feel inadequate in his T-shirt and faded jeans. As if she’d read his mind, she looks him over and wrinkles her nose. “I brought a change of clothes for you. We can’t go to the Italian place with you looking like that.”

“Of course not,” Pete says, rising. In the long run, as he’d learned, going along with what his wife wants just saves time. “Oh, uh, Charlie, this is Tom Nolan, the patient I was telling you about. Tom, this is Charlie. My…my wife.” 

“Right,” Tom says. His brow furrows, but Pete’s not self-centered enough to think it’s from disappointment. Must just be from confusion. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Charlie doesn’t look at him. “Likewise, I’m sure. Come on, Pete, we’ll be late for our reservation. Let’s go.”

Pete manages to cast an apologetic smile over his shoulder at Tom before Charlie takes him by the hand and leads him out of the room. 

* * *

“Another hot chocolate?”

Bradley looks up from his notes. “Hey, Susan,” he says. “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

Susan arches her eyebrows. The diner’s slammed tonight, but even though she’s probably got at least fifty customers to deal with, she leans on the counter and stares him down — gently, somehow. “Nervous about the debate tonight?”

Bradley shakes his head. “No,” he says. He notices that she’s got a _Vote for Bradshaw_ button pinned to the lapel of her shirt; rather than reassuring him, it just makes him feel worse. “I’m not nervous. I just — I’m not going to win.” 

“What’re you talking about? Everyone’s been talking about how you saved Monica from the fire. You’ve got it in the bag.”

“No, I mean…” Bradley scrubs a hand down his face, trying to vocalize the complex swirl of emotions within him. “I’ve seen the stories in the paper, and I’ve heard about how everyone’s been calling me a hero, but I’m not a hero. I was just in the right place at the right time. I don't want to win just because of that. I want to really be the best candidate for the job.”

“Well, it’d be hard to be less well-suited than Glass,” Susan says. “The man runs a newspaper. He doesn’t exactly have your experience.”

That draws a laugh. “Fair enough.”

Susan’s eyes soften. “Trust me, Bradley. Hero might be a new title for you, but it’s not an unworthy one.” She picks up his empty cup and drops his check on the counter. “But if you feel uncomfortable wielding it, then maybe you can convince your voters of some of the other titles you have. Show them that you’re a good man.”

“You think I can do that?”

“I know so,” Susan says. “You’re a good egg.” She taps him on the head before walking away, smiling at the couple at the other end of the counter. “Coming, Mr and Mrs Smith. What can I get started for you?”

* * *

“Tragedy has brought us here today,” says Mayor Kendrick. “But we are faced with this decision, upon which rests the future safety and well-being of this town. And now, we ask only that you listen with an open mind, and vote your conscience.” His nose wrinkles a little at the words, but none of the crowd seem to notice. Bradley catches Phoenix’s gaze (she’s sitting in the front row) and rolls his eyes. He bets Kendrick doesn’t even have a conscience. “So without further ado, allow me to introduce you to the candidates: John Glass, interim sheriff, and Bradley Bradshaw, former deputy.”

Bradley grits his teeth as Glass strolls up to the podium to make his opening statements, beaming at the audience. Jesus, the room is packed; he’s pretty sure everyone and their mother had shown up to watch this debate. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says easily. “I won’t waste your time by listing my qualifications,” _probably because you don't fucking have any,_ “but I would like to say that if elected, I want to continue to serve as a reflection of the best qualities of Storybrooke. Honesty. Neighborliness. And strength. Thank you.”

Bradley’s heard better speeches on daytime court TV, but the audience’s cheers for Glass go on for a full minute after he sits down. And then it’s Bradley’s turn, and he swallows hard once he reaches the podium. His notecards tremble in his hands. 

“You guys all know I’ve got what they call a, uh, a troubled past,” Bradley says. “I was a juvenile delinquent. I stole food to survive when I was a kid. I helped steal a car. I was arrested for possession of stolen goods and spent six months in jail. But you’ve all been able to overlook it because of the hero thing. And I thank you for it, but…” He lets out a breath. “I don't want to be seen like that. I’m not a hero. And I don't want to win just because you all think that of me. Because let’s be real: if I’m elected, I’m going to make mistakes. I’ll screw up. Everybody screws up. That’s just what makes us human.”

The room is so quiet that a pin dropping would have sounded like another car bomb going off. Everyone is leaning forward slightly, hanging on his every word, and Bradley digs deep for the courage to continue.

“What I want you to take with you to the ballot boxes, if anything, is this. I’ve got experience in law enforcement — and experience _with_ law enforcement, if my record is any indication.” That gets a laugh, surprisingly. “But above all, unlike my opponent, I’m not going to spend my tenure in the mayor’s pocket. Everything I want to do for this town, I’m going to do with the people’s safety and well-being in mind. Because that is what a good man — what a good sheriff — is supposed to do.” He clears his throat, feeling awkward. “And that — that’s all I wanted to say. Thank you.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Kendrick says smoothly. His eyes flash with fury, and Phoenix and Susan are both smiling from their seats in the front row, so Bradley figures he’d done something right. “Well then. Let’s have a debate.”

* * *

The ballots are cast two days after the debate, on Monday morning, and by Monday evening, the O Club has been decorated from nook to crany for the victory party. Fritz and Ronny Carter are behind the bar, serving drinks to everybody, and Sherry’s diner provided all the catering. Bradley’s hands had started shaking sometime around Saturday night, and hadn’t really stopped since. Lucky for him, Phoenix is there to catch him if he faints before Kendrick reads the results.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Kendrick says, and everyone turns around to face him. Phoenix takes Bradley’s hand, squeezing it tight. Glass, who’s standing near Kendrick, wears an almost bored expression, but his eyes are filled with triumph, like he’s already won. Bradley’s stomach lurches. “I hold in my hand the results of the sheriff’s election. While the race was undoubtedly close…” His jaw twitches. “It seems that the people of Storybrooke followed their consciences down a path I had not foreseen. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Bradley Bradshaw, your new sheriff.”

At that moment, a cheer rises from the crowd, a loud, disorderly cheer, and Bradley almost disappears in the rush of people that surround him to hug him, praise him, give him congratulations. Once he can stand upright, Phoenix sprints toward him and throws herself into his arms, hugging him tight enough to crack his ribs. “You did it! I knew you could do it!”

“That makes approximately one of us,” Bradley manages, and Phoenix laughs, bright and joyful, before she lets him go. “I couldn’t have done any of it without your help.”

Phoenix blushes. “You did all the hard work yourself,” she says. “I just nudged you in the right direction.”

“It was a great nudge,” Bradley says, inwardly cursing himself at how awkward that comes out. “Thank you, Phoenix. Really.”

Phoenix’s smile is like sunshine, and Bradley thinks he’d do just about anything to be on the receiving end of such a smile again. “You’re welcome, Bradley Bradshaw.”

Before Bradley can figure out what to say to that, Glass approaches the pair of them. Gone is his expression of near boredom; in fact, he looks...defeated, and there’s something in his eyes that sets off alarm bells in Bradley’s head. “Congratulations,” he says, and places the silver sheriff’s badge in Bradley’s hand. Phoenix takes it out of Bradley’s hand and pins it to his jacket, right above his heart. “It suits you.”

“Thank you,” Bradley says, and shakes Glass’s outstretched hand.

Glass gives Bradley a tight nod before he strides past him and Phoenix and all of the celebrating civilians, all the way to the front door, where Kendrick is standing. They’re having some kind of conversation, though Bradley can’t make out what they’re saying to each other. Then Kendrick opens the door for Glass, who allows Kendrick to lead him outside into the night.

Only later will Bradley realize that he hadn’t seen John Glass since that night. 

* * *

Pete’s glad that he’d convinced Charlie to come out to the O Club with him tonight, even if she’s not having all that great of a time. (To be fair, she hardly ever does when she’s with him, which she doesn’t hesitate to tell him.) Bradley won the election, which makes this the first time in Storybrooke history that Mayor Kendrick had been thwarted by anybody. Phoenix had dragged Bradley over to the other end of the bar, where Ronny’s pouring him celebratory shots of tequila and Susan and Sherry are shouting _Three cheers for Sheriff Bradshaw!_ every ten minutes. Considering all the work Bradley had put into the election, Pete’s happy it worked out in his favor. _Wish something would work in my favor, for once._

“Pete?” a voice asks, and Pete turns so fast that he almost knocks down the barstool to his right. Out of everybody he’d expected to see standing before him, a sheepish Tom Nolan, dressed in faded jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, hadn’t been one of them. Pete knew that Tom had been discharged from the hospital on Friday, but now that they’re standing in front of each other…he has no idea what to say or even how to say it. 

And yet, despite the fact that he barely knows Tom Nolan at all, and that he _really_ shouldn’t be thinking about the attractiveness of someone he’s not married to, and that Charlie will be back from the bathroom at any moment, Pete can’t bring himself to care. Nor can he stop the smile that warms his expression. “Hi,” he says. “Hi, Tom.”


	8. Follow Your Heart

One Year, Eleven ½ Months Before The Curse: 

Two weeks after the final battle against the Migs brings the HMS _TOPGUN_ to Solmig, where they’ll assist with peace negotiations before heading back to Fallon, and then to their next assignment. Viper and Jester leave once they dock to meet with the other commanders, and the crew departs to take in the local sights (ie. go to every bar and pub within a ten mile radius). Most of them, anyway. They’d tried to be discreet about it, but Maverick only had to make eye contact with Ice in the mess hall that afternoon for everyone to know they planned on christening every surface of the ship once they had the _TOPGUN_ to themselves.

“Just don’t do him in my bed, Kazansky,” Maverick hears Slider saying to Ice right before he walks down the gangplank with the others, and it makes him flush up to the roots of his hair. He’d heard a variety of things like that since he and Ice got together — the most memorable (and utterly humiliating) one being when he heard Jester mutter that Maverick and Ice’s sexual tension was starting to drive him stir-crazy — but he’s no scared virgin, and he doesn’t give a shit what the guys think about him. Or about him and Ice.

(He doesn’t give a shit about anything, really, once they’re alone, except how to keep Ice’s hands and mouth on him — and how to keep his mouth and hands on Ice — for the rest of his life.)

They don’t have sex in Slider’s bed (though Maverick kind of wants to lie and say they did, just to see Slider’s reaction), but they do fuck up against the door to the officers’ quarters, and then again on the floor, and then, finally, in Maverick’s bed. It’s rough and quick at first, but becomes slower and more intense as the night goes on; the kisses deeper, the touches more heated as they explore every inch of each other. He’d ached for this for so long, it feels unreal that it’s finally happening.

He even sucks Ice off at some point, even though he’d never actually done that to anyone before — or experienced it himself. ‘Puerile sexual activities’ like that were unbefitting of a prince, or so the nobles from neighboring kingdoms whom he’d slept with had always said; his tutors had refused to speak of sex at all unless it was in the name of making an heir. But he’d been paying attention when Ice had done it to him, even while the sheer pleasure set him on fire, so he uses his hand on the parts his mouth can’t get to — and if he’d thought Iceman Kazansky naked and hard as nails was a beautiful sight, it doesn’t come close to Ice clutching at the sheets, his eyes rolled back into his head as he arches up and comes with a long, low groan right into Maverick’s mouth. 

“Your bed’s more comfortable than mine,” Ice murmurs, a million years later. They’re tangled up in each other’s embraces now, under the sheets. Maverick’s stroking Ice’s hair, and Ice is practically purring at the touch, nuzzling his neck. He’d laugh, maybe, if he weren’t so smitten. _So this is all it takes to get him relaxed: blow him and stroke his hair._ “Maybe I should complain to the captain.”

Maverick shakes his head. “It’s only because you’re here with me,” he says, and Ice smirks.

“Maybe we can test that theory in my bed later,” he says. “Make this a more permanent arrangement. What do you think?”

Maverick feels a blush steal over him. “Yes,” he says. “I think I would like that very much.”

“So formal, Mitchell.” Ice presses a kiss to Maverick’s throat, then higher up on his neck. “Thought you kicked all that silver spoon talk by now.”

Maverick’s heart seizes like he missed a step going down the stairs. “Yeah, well,” he says, trying for a laugh. “Old habits die hard, I guess.” He nods at the ring on Ice’s hand, which is resting on Maverick’s hip. He’d only taken off that ring a few times in all the time Maverick had known him, not counting during sex. “Figured you’d know what that’s like, having a formal education. You went to the Naval Academy, didn’t you?”

Ice studies the silver and blue of the ring, like he’d forgotten it was on his hand at all. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “My dad went too, but he…he died, not long after he graduated. The ring’s actually his.” 

“I’m sorry,” Maverick says. He knows exactly how it feels to lose a parent, especially one you’d been close to.

Ice shrugs. “It’s alright,” he says, still quiet. “It was a long time ago.” He shakes his head slightly, pulling himself back together by sheer force of will. “My mom saved up for years so I could go and get my commission, and it was worth it.” He nudges Maverick’s knee, smiling slightly. “Still. I’ve got a feeling the education I got wasn’t anywhere near as formal as the one you had.”

“Probably not,” Maverick admits. He wants to change the subject, but can’t, not after what Ice had told him, not when Ice is looking at him expectantly. He chooses his words carefully. “I…well, the silver spoon comment isn’t too far off, I guess. I was born to a…wealthy family, so I had tutors and governesses at home. When I was older, my parents sent me across the kingdom so I could get a good education.”

“Did they expect you to join the Navy?”

 _Not this one, that’s for sure._ “No, they didn’t expect it. I was supposed to go into the, uh, the family business, but…” His grin is surprisingly genuine. “Well, I’m a maverick that way.”

Ice snickers. “That’s for sure,” he teases. “Are your family mavericks too?”

Maverick swallows hard. “No,” he finally says. “I…my father died when I was a teenager, but he was always strict, distant. We weren’t close.” _And my stepfather’s as much a maverick as a cat is like a crow._

Ice softens. “And your mother?”

Tears form in his eyes, and he blinks them back. For a moment, he lets himself remember the softness of her smile, the warmth of her hugs, her love of music, the way they’d sit together in the gardens and count the fireflies in the evenings when he was a child. And then how cold and distant she’d gone after his father had died, after she’d married his stepfather. How he’d never gotten his mother back, no matter what he tried. “Gone,” he rasps. “Died, not too long ago.”

Ice touches Maverick’s face, wipes away the tears that have spilled with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay.”

Quiet stretches out, until Ice shifts onto his side so he can look Maverick in the eyes. “Maybe family is too loaded of a subject to delve into right away,” he says lightly. “What about your favorite color?”

Maverick snorts. “What?”

“You have to admit it’s strange that you’ve risked your life to save mine, and I’d do the same for you, but I don’t know what your favorite color is.” Ice nudges his knee again. “C’mon, Mav. Really. I want to know.”

A smile creeps onto his lips. “Red. What’s yours?”

“Blue,” he says. “Like the sky.”

Maverick closes his eyes and pictures it: the soft, comforting blue of the sky. Beautiful. Just like the man next to him. “I approve.”

“Glad to hear.”

Maverick’s smile grows when Ice tugs him even closer and kisses him. “C’mon,” he breathes, and palms Ice’s ass. “Let’s learn some more about each other.”

Ice grins back. “Let’s see,” he murmurs, just as breathy, right into Maverick’s ear. He’s cupping Maverick’s ass now too, rubbing up against him. Arousal sends a jolt through his heart, down his spine, making him shiver all over. “We’ve covered that I like the color blue. I like cats, and sunsets, and music.” He kisses the corner of Maverick’s mouth. “And I like you.”

“I like you too,” Maverick says, all in a breathless rush, and loses himself in their kiss.

* * *

The morning after the election finds Bradley with dry mouth and a screaming headache. In retrospect, staying out and celebrating that much wasn’t the best idea, but he’d been so happy. It wasn’t just that he’d won the damn election that Mayor Kendrick had been so determined to see him lose, and in a landslide to boot; watching Phoenix celebrate alongside him and smile like she finally believed good could triumph over evil once in a while made his night. So he’d stayed up late at the O Club with Phoenix, knocking back a round of tequila with Ronny Carter and Fritz Mendoza, even teasing Susan into enjoying herself too.

So he pushes through the miserable morning and makes it through the afternoon. He’d even opened the sheriff’s station — _his_ sheriff’s station now — fifteen minutes early, because hungover or not, Bradley refuses to give Kendrick any excuses to complain about his conduct. He spends the morning at his desk, wading through the mess of paperwork that had only grown since Stinger had died, and patrols the town over the course of the afternoon. Throughout the day, people keep coming up to congratulate him on his victory, and it’s strange to be on the receiving end of so much affection when just a few weeks ago no one here knew he existed. Nice, but strange.

Still, by the time Phoenix joins him in the diner for a late lunch, Bradley’s glad that she isn’t another well-wishing acquaintance.

“The whole town’s been buzzing all day,” she tells him excitedly, beaming just as brightly as she had last night. “Everyone’s thrilled, Bradley. Things are finally starting to change around here — you’re bringing back the happy endings!”

“I don’t know about that,” Bradley says with a slight laugh. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do. Stinger didn’t have any filing system in place and Glass didn’t bother organizing anything when he was the interim sheriff.” His smile fades into a frown. “You haven’t seen him around today, have you?”

Phoenix shakes her head. “He’s probably helping my father plot his next move,” she says ruefully. “I saw my father this morning; he’s been livid since the results came in.”

Sherry Lucas comes by with their food, smiling at him. “Hey there, Sheriff,” she says. “What do you think about the newest addition to the Wall of Fame?”

“The Wall of Fame?”

“Yeah, every time something big happens around here I put up an article from the _Daily Mirror_ on the wall. My daughter’s idea; she’s big into current events.” Sherry nods at the wall next to the counter, which boasts at least fifty pictures and cut out articles from the newspaper. In a moment worthy of Phoenix, Bradley wonders how many of them, besides his own, were fabricated by the curse. But it’s nice to see some recognition of his achievement — and the picture of him wearing the badge while Glass glowers and the headline that reads _Bradshaw Defeats Glass_ give him nothing but sheer satisfaction.

Once Sherry heads back across the room, Bradley lowers his voice. “Do you think Glass knows about the curse?”

Phoenix bites her lip. “I’m not sure,” she admits. “Maybe Glass’s counterpart in the Enchanted Forest knew, but I don’t know if Glass does.”

“Wait, you think Glass is in the Book?”

“Not from what I’ve seen,” Phoenix says. “And I’ve read that thing cover to cover. But my father chooses his cronies carefully, so I’m sure Glass was _someone_ important.” She frowns, deep in thought. Bradley tries not to think about how cute she looks like that. “And it is strange that neither of us have seen him around…”

“Sheriff Bradshaw!”

Bradley pastes on a winning smile, which actually grows genuine at the sight of Tom Nolan approaching him. Phoenix makes a little noise that could be a squeak or a high-pitched gasp, and he steps on her foot under the table so she won’t try to jump him. “Hi, Tom,” he says. “How’re you doing?”

“Good, thank you,” Tom says. “I’m just picking up lunch before I head over to work.”

Bradley raises his eyebrows, interested. He’d heard that Sherry was temporarily putting Tom up in the B&B while his old house — left vacant for all these years, strangely enough; Christ, didn’t _anybody_ but him and Phoenix believe in questioning these things? — was being renovated and cleaned, but he hadn’t known Tom had gotten a job. “Where are you working?”

“Over at the pawn shop,” Tom says easily. “Apparently I owned it before I, well…” His smile grows slightly forced. “Anyway, I’ve got the job back now, which is nice. The veterinarian and his partner were talking about hiring me at the animal shelter, but animals aren’t really my thing.”

“Not even cats?” Phoenix says. “You seem like a cat person.”

“Thank you?” Tom says, a little confused. Bradley kicks Phoenix under the table, and she kicks him right back. “Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you again on your victory, Sheriff.”

“Bradley,” he corrects. “And thanks. I appreciate it.”

Tom’s name is called by the waitress behind the counter, and he smiles a goodbye at them both before heading over there. Bradley watches him accept his food and head toward the door — only to run directly into Pete and Charlie Matthews. Charlie side-steps Tom easily, but Tom and Pete just stare at each other, mumbling apologies without moving. It’s only when Charlie impatiently calls Pete’s name does Pete head over to her, but he keeps glancing over his shoulder at Tom, even when Tom leaves.

Phoenix sums up Bradley’s thoughts on the matter. “This should be interesting.”

* * *

One Year, Eight Months Before The Curse: 

“Gentlemen,” Viper announces that morning in the mess hall. “I’ve received word from Her Royal Majesty Queen Anne that we’re to ship out of Fallon, effective immediately.”

The reaction to that isn’t exactly surprised, since they’ve been docked in the northernmost part of the kingdom for the last three weeks and stuck in Fallon ever since King Mikhail of Solmig signed the peace treaty with Queen Anne. Most of the crew seem thrilled at the prospect of being back at sea and fighting the good fight again, Maverick included. Still, part of him is a little disappointed. He’d wanted to meet up with Carole and Bradley in the next couple of weeks, introduce Ice to them as his partner, but now it seems like that won’t be happening.

“There’s a prisoner exchange we’re meant to oversee in Patuxent, which has declared itself neutral again,” Viper is saying, and Maverick rolls his eyes. Patuxent is a small kingdom, ruled by the king regent John III, who can’t even make a decision about whether to go to the washroom without first checking with his swarm of advisors. They always declare themselves neutral. “Joining us to oversee the exchange will be one of the queen’s top advisors, Admiral Charlotte Blackwood.”

Maverick’s jaw drops. Sure enough, strolling into the mess hall like she owns the room and the ship itself is Charlie. “Unbelievable,” he says in an undertone to Ice. “We’ve been writing to each other for ages, and she never mentioned she was going to stay here.”

Ice shrugs. Wolf makes an obscene gesture, and Maverick sticks his tongue out at him. 

The second Viper finishes talking, Maverick pushes back his chair and heads over to Charlie. He makes to embrace her, but she steps back, shaking her head slightly. Right, protocol. Of course. He gives her a bow worthy of a prince and a salute worthy of a soldier before smiling at her, and this time she returns the smile. “Admiral Blackwood.”

“Lieutenant Mitchell,” she says. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Maverick says, grinning. He can tell everyone’s eyes are on the two of them, including Viper and Jester’s, but he doesn’t care. “I didn’t expect the pleasure of your company so soon.”

“Please understand, I would have written, but this all happened so fast,” Charlie says. “Her Majesty wanted Admiral Martin — Perry, you know — but he refused the assignment because he didn’t want to leave his ill wife. And now here I am.”

“Glad we got that straight,” Maverick says. “Either way, we’re happy to have you. I’m happy to have you.”

“I’m happy to be here,” she says, and touches him on the arm. He knows it’s the closest she’ll come to a hug in these circumstances, so he’ll take it. “We’ll have to catch up later, Lieutenant.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Admiral,” Maverick teases, and she rolls her eyes before walking over to join Viper and Jester at their end of the table. Maverick returns to his spot next to Ice, unable to hide his laughter at Slider and Wolf and Hollywood’s stupefied expressions. “What? You already knew I was friends with her.”

“Still,” Slider says, looking slightly put out. “Wish you’d act like you were friends with me and put in a good word.”

“Fuck you, Kerner,” Hollywood says. “He’ll put in a good word for me first, I introduced myself first. We’ve been friends longer.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like blondes,” Wolf puts in, clearly irritated. “Or brunettes.”

“Well fuck me, Wolfman,” Slider says, eight different kinds of sarcastic. “Then we’re all shit out of luck. Either that or I’ll dye my hair red to up my chances.”

Maverick laughs out loud. “Look, if you want to make a move, I won’t stop you, but nothing I say will make her do anything. She’s stubborn as hell when she wants to be.”

“Kinda like you,” Ice says lightly, and Slider starts laughing. Maverick rolls his eyes and leans into Ice’s side, leaning up a little so he can drop his chin on Ice’s shoulder. Ice glances over at him, but he’s not smiling. Not really, anyway.

“Hey,” he says in an undertone, poking Ice in the hip. “You’re still my one and only, Kazansky.”

Ice smirks. “Good,” he says, just as quietly. “Don’t want you forgetting who you belong to now, Mitchell.”

“Not a chance,” Maverick says, smirking back, and Ice kisses him.

He can feel Charlie’s curious gaze on his back through the rest of the meal.

* * *

The pawn shop is at the tail end of the cluster of shops on Main Street, only a hundred yards or so from Storybrooke Library. The logo on the shop windows is gold-colored and shows the name of the shop — _Nolan Pawnbroker & Antiquities _— emblazoned with a stylized illustration of three gold coins. Truth be told, Tom thinks it’s pretty gloomy, and has no idea why he’d choose to own one in the first place. Then again, he doesn’t really know anything about himself at all, except his name. And even that doesn’t seem to fit him right.

Dr. Sink keeps saying his memories will come back to him in time, but it’s already been a week and a half since he woke up, and nothing, not even the slightest inkling of his past, has returned to him. When he tries to think about his past, or even the night of the accident, all he remembers is blood, and purple smoke, and a desperate plea: _I love you. Find me._

 _Now if only I could remember who I’m supposed to find, my life would be a lot easier,_ Tom thinks, moving a box of antique clocks to the emptiest countertop. _Or if any of that is real at all._

Still. The pawn shop might be a gloomy place, but the items in it are actually fairly fascinating. There are the usual old firearms and ancient phones and jewelry, and then there are paintings, a chess set, a taxidermied wolf, a replica model of a ship called the _TOPGUN_ (weird name for a ship, in his opinion), and a rowboat hanging from the ceiling. Whoever was managing the shop in his absence clearly didn’t do a good job, because the place is a mess. It’s going to take him months just to get it back into some kind of working order.

Tom kicks a rolled up rug out of the way, and once the plume of dust dissipates, he takes a step forward and almost trips over the handle jutting out of the floor. Frowning, Tom crouches down to take a closer look. It looks like a trap door of some kind — and, his curiosity peaking, he grabs the handle and yanks the door open.

There’s a set of stairs leading down, and he turns the flashlight app on his phone on for better visibility. He doesn’t have long to walk; soon he is in a room that’s about the size of a large bathroom or a French elevator — and every square inch is filled with weapons. Battle axes, bows and arrows, maces, more firearms. And swords.

Tom picks up a short, broad saber _(a cutlass,_ his brain supplies, even if he doesn’t know how he knows that) with a silver blade and a gold basket-shaped guard. It feels balanced in his hand, and he does a couple of practice swings, miraculously not poking his own eye out. He knows how to wield a sword. And more importantly (and strangely) there is an _entire secret room_ full of weapons underneath his pawn shop.

_What the hell is going on here?_

* * *

Bradley’s only been in the Storybrooke Town Records office for half an hour, but his patience with the unorganized filing system has reached its breaking point. The files in here are so unorganized that things are impossible to find unless you already know where they are. Phoenix had convinced Mr. Williams, the man in charge (who Phoenix claimed was called Sundown back in the Enchanted Forest), to take an early lunch, which just makes things more difficult for him now. Still, at least now they’ll be sure the mayor won’t figure out what they’re up to.

“You’d think they’d have uploaded the files to computers by now,” Bradley grumbles, and Phoenix shrugs.

“My father doesn’t exactly do anything around here that makes things _easier_ for people,” she says. “Besides, it’s like every quest in the book: good has to be fought for. Just like True Love.”

“And we’ll get back to fighting for Pete and Tom’s True Love as soon as we figure out what happened to Glass,” Bradley says, which is a top contender for the weirdest sentence he’s ever uttered. “It’s been a week since the election and I haven’t seen head or tail of Glass, and there’s no record here at _all_ about where he lives — there isn’t even anything here about him being the editor of the newspaper.” He brandishes a copy of an old, yellowing newspaper at Phoenix. Where it should say _Chief Editor: John Glass,_ there is just a blank space.

“What should we do?”

“Only one thing we can do,” Bradley says. “Before I put out an APB on Glass, anyway.” He runs his hands through his hair, mentally and physically bracing himself. “I’m going to talk to the mayor.”

* * *

One Year, Seven Months Before The Curse: 

The clanging of the warning bell jolts Maverick out of sleep and almost out of the bed entirely. Wolfman actually does fall off his bed, right on top of Hollywood, who’d fallen asleep on the floor. Chipper and Sundown and Cougar and Merlin are racing up the steps to the main deck in the time it takes Maverick to throw his clothes on and grab his sword. 

The main deck is eerily quiet, despite the crowd of people. No one is fighting, no one is saying a single word; the only sound is their sharp breathing and the waves splashing up against the side of the ship. Increasingly terrified, Maverick shoves his way to the front of the crowd — and he comes to a sudden halt right between Viper and Jester, his mouth dry as dust.

Standing in the center of the main deck is a group of rough-looking men, all wearing black eye masks and the green and black uniforms of the Miramar Royal Navy — and not just any sect of the Miramar Royal Navy. These are the Ghost Riders, the team used by his stepfather for kingdom-sanctioned kidnappings and assassinations. And their leader, a ruthless man who Maverick knows is called Alfred Scott, is smiling like he’s on a carefree stroll through a park, and holding the point of his sword to Ice’s throat.

“What is the meaning of this?” Viper says. Calm, collected, with an undertone of seething fury. “The Kingdom of Fallon has no fight with the Kingdom of Miramar.”

“On the contrary,” Scott says, just as carefree as his smile. “King Edward received word that Fallon got its grubby hands on two of our high-ranking officers, and was holding them prisoner. In fact, he was stunned to hear that Queen Anne had planned to just hand over our men to Patuxent, instead of returning our men to their rightful home.”

“Your men?” Jester says sharply. “You’re mistaken. We have no men of yours on board this ship.”

Scott chuckles. “My dear commander,” he says. “I implore you not to play ignorant with me. If you were briefed by the queen, then you must be aware that the men you have prisoner are actually spies for Miramar; King Edward’s men, disguised as Migs.”

This sends a ripple through the crowd. Maverick can’t take his eyes off Ice, who is on his knees, his back to Scott. There’s a long cut trickling blood down the side of his face; behind him — and the sight freezes his heart — lies Slider, unconscious with a dark purple lump blossoming on his temple. They’d both been on guard duty tonight, Maverick remembers, shaking so hard he can barely keep upright. Did Ice have to abandon Slider to go and ring the alarm bell to alert the crew? Or did Slider run to do so before he was incapacitated?

“And if we don’t hand over the men you allege to be from Miramar?” Charlie says. Maverick startles; he almost forgot she was in the crowd at all.

“Madam—”

_“Admiral.”_

“Excuse me, Admiral,” says Scott, placing a mock-respectful emphasis on Charlie’s title. “Well, if you don’t hand over the men we _know_ come from our kingdom, I will have no choice but to kill _your_ men here and now.”

“No!”

The crowd goes dead silent. Scott cocks his head, and when his eyes land on Maverick, he smiles, his eyes slightly narrowed. “It seems soldiers from Fallon are prone to talking without permission,” he says. “And unable to read the room. Tell me, Lieutenant, what is your name?”

The world falls away from under him — and then, just as fast, returns. It’d been more than two years since he ran away, and he had never met any of the Ghost Riders face to face before; he’d only known Scott from his reputation. And even if Scott had taken the time to study the royal portrait of Prince Peter (if it even hangs in the castle at all now), he doesn’t look the same anymore. He’s a little taller now, older, stronger. His hair is short, his hands are rough and steady, his skin sun-browned and his shoulders broader. He’s a soldier, not a prince. He can do this.

He steps out of the crowd, lifting his chin up. “Maverick,” he says. “Maverick Mitchell.”

“Well, Lieutenant Mitchell,” says Scott. Almost casually, he presses the blade of his sword harder into the skin of Ice’s throat; Maverick feels like he’s going to be sick as beads of blood start to appear. “As you clearly believe you know better than your superiors, perhaps you can explain to me the next step of our encounter before I sever this man’s head from his neck.”

 _“Don’t touch him.”_ Maverick is shaking, though from courage or terror or sheer adrenaline he doesn’t know. _Ice, Ice, Ice._ “Don’t touch either of them. Please. You can have the prisoners, we don’t—”

“No,” Charlie cuts in. She’s striding up to meet Scott and Maverick, standing by Maverick’s side with a blazing look in her eyes. “You can’t have the prisoners under any circumstances because—”

“Because we don’t have them,” Maverick lies. Everyone is looking at him now, even Viper. He takes a shaky breath and meets Scott’s eyes unflinchingly, ignoring the anger radiating off Charlie. “We dropped them off in Patuxent already. But we can get them back, and then you can have them and take them back to Miramar, and you can let our men go.”

“Interesting,” says Scott. He doesn’t move his sword away from Ice’s throat. “Tell me then, Lieutenant Mitchell. If you’ve been to Patuxent already, you’ll surely be able to describe what the main throne room looks like.”

As the main throne room of Patuxent Castle is closed off to everyone but royalty — and, Maverick supposes, the people overseeing a prisoner exchange — the question couldn’t have been directed at a better person. “It overlooks a river,” he says. “And the forest nearby. The curtains are velvet and the throne is made from gold. There’s a tapestry in the corner to show the succession of the royal family — Princess Laurel and Prince Bowie’s faces have black veils stitched over them because they both died the day after they were born.”

There’s a short pause. “And what happened to the men you intended to receive in exchange?”

“Dead,” Maverick says. He doesn’t dare meet Ice’s eyes, or anyone else’s but Scott’s. “Already dead and gone.”

Scott gives a low chuckle. “Very well,” he says at last. “I’ll play along with your game, Lieutenant. I’ll give your crew precisely one week to return our prisoners to us, and if you are unable to succeed…” The blade digs deeper into Ice’s throat; the beads of blood become a steady trickle. Maverick swallows back bile. “Are we quite clear?”

“We’re clear,” Maverick says at once. His heart is pounding so loud he’s sure Scott can hear it. “We’re clear, I promise. We’ll get you your men.”

“Excellent,” Scott says. “And just in case you get any ideas of trickery…” He snaps his fingers, and two of the men behind him hoist the still unconscious Slider to his feet. Another man standing near Scott (Wells, Scott’s second in command) grabs Ice by the back of his uniform jacket and yanks him into a standing position. Scott’s sword doesn’t leave Ice’s throat for even a second. “We’ll keep your men with us, on our ship, until we have our men with us again.”

“How do I know you won’t kill them the moment they’re off my ship?”

Scott smiles. “I don’t draw blood without reason, Captain,” he says patronizingly to Viper. “And I would advise you not to give me reason.” He shoves Ice forward; Ice whirls around and glares at him with so much hatred that Maverick’s surprised Scott’s eyebrows hadn’t been burned off, but the sword pointed at him prevents Ice from saying anything. (And prevents Maverick from killing any of the Ghost Riders.) “We will meet again, Lieutenant Mitchell, in a week on this very spot. I recommend that you don’t delay.”

Numb, all Maverick can do is watch as Ice and Slider disappear with the Ghost Riders into their ship. Something glints on the deck in the light of the rising sun; Maverick kneels to pick it up, and his throat goes tight when he realizes it’s Ice’s father’s ring. He encloses it in his shaking fist and drops it in his jacket pocket, right over his heart, which feels like it will fissure and splinter apart at any moment.

“Maverick,” Viper says. Maverick turns around to see Viper and Jester and Charlie beside him now. The faces of the crew are alternatively enraged and confused; if Viper, Jester, or Charlie feel that way, they’re doing an excellent job of hiding it. “My quarters. Now.”

* * *

“Sheriff Bradshaw,” Kendrick says. “What a…pleasant surprise.”

Bradley refrains from rolling his eyes with great effort. “Not going to nag me about not having an appointment?” he says. “Your secretary kept saying that as she chased me up a flight of stairs.”

“Why would I?” Kendrick says. His voice is so smooth it might as well be a purr. He stands up from his desk and steps around it, his expression giving nothing away like a perfect politician. Bradley catches a glimpse of himself in the full-sized mirror to the right of Kendrick’s desk, and is pleased to see that he looks professional. “If the town’s new head of law enforcement came all the way here in the middle of his shift, I imagine it’s for a matter of the utmost importance.”

He doesn’t flinch. “It is,” he says, and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s been eight days since the election and nobody around here has seen John Glass. He hasn’t been at work and I can’t find any records on him, so if you know any details about where he’s gone, I suggest you share them with me.”

Kendrick just arches his eyebrows. “Dear me,” he says mildly. “Was winning not enough for you, Mr. Bradshaw? Insisting on rubbing your victory in everybody’s face is very unbecoming.”

Bradley bites back the perfect insult. “I just want to know if you know anything about why nobody’s seen him in over a week,” he grinds out. “You were the last one to see him. Any information you have is relevant to my investigation.”

“Your investigation?” Kendrick repeats. He tilts his head to the side, smiling slightly. “Allow me to give you a word of advice, Mr. Bradshaw. Sometimes people just don’t want to be found, and not every problem is your problem to solve.”

“I’m the sheriff,” Bradley says evenly. _And the Savior, if Phoenix is right about the curse._ “Every problem in this town is my problem to solve.”

Kendrick’s smile vanishes. “Well, Sheriff,” he says. “Perhaps this one isn’t. And I suggest you get your mind off it, and focus more on the greater good of the town you were elected to care about.”

“Like you do, right?”

“Exactly.” Kendrick leans back against his desk, and Bradley steps back automatically. For a split second, Bradley swears he sees a flash of blond hair in the mirror when Kendrick steps in front of it, but then it’s gone again. Must have been a figment of his imagination. “Now get to it.”

* * *

“This is crazy,” Pete comments, gazing around the storage room with wide eyes. “Who in town gave you all of these swords?”

“My guess is they’ve been in here for generations,” Tom says. “Doesn’t really look like anything’s ever actually been sold here. Just collected.”

“Still,” Pete says, and flashes an uncharacteristically confident grin over his shoulder. Tom feigns interest in the nearby cluster of old swords just to hide his blush, and then hates himself for blushing at all. He doesn’t need to deal with an inconvenient crush on a married man (who happens to be his only friend around here) on top of all of his other issues. “This is amazing. What are you going to do with all of this?”

“No idea,” Tom says honestly. “I mean, I could sell the swords to a museum or something.”

“You could give them to the high school theater department,” Pete muses. “They need better props for their Shakespeare plays.”

Tom laughs. “Sure,” he says, playing along. “Maybe I’ll donate the other stuff to the elementary school. Like the books and the jewelry.”

“Jewelry?” Pete looks interested. “Hey, if you have any diamond necklaces, I’ll take them off your hands.”

“I didn’t peg you for a diamond necklace guy.”

“I’m not,” Pete admits. Now he’s blushing, and he ducks his head. “My…my wife is.”

“Oh,” Tom says numbly. It’s stupid to feel so disappointed. “Ah. Well, if I see one…”

“Hey, what about these?” Pete has hurried away from him and the awkwardness of this conversation, and Tom follows, grateful for the distraction. He’s looking at a velvet-coated tray of glittering rings and bracelets, diamonds and silver and gold. Tom hadn’t noticed any of these before. “This one’s nice.”

Tom glances at the ring that Pete’s pointing at, and picks it up to examine it. It has a silver band, and a blue topaz stone that glimmers in the light. It’s not any more beautiful than the others on the tray — in fact, the stone has a couple of scratches on it, and the brightness of the silver has dulled over time — but he can’t stop looking at it. 

“It’s beautiful,” Pete says softly. Tom glances over at him; at the same time, Pete meets his eyes. They both look away, blushing.

Before Tom can change his mind, he takes Pete’s left hand in his. His heart pounds in his throat when he carefully removes Pete’s wedding ring, and slides this ring on his fourth finger instead. “Huh,” he says, just as softly. “I think it suits you.” He tries for a smile. “Strange.”

Pete doesn’t move his hand away, or ask for his ring back. “Yeah,” he echoes, almost like he’s caught in a dream. “Strange.”

* * *

One Year, Seven Months Before The Curse: 

“You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking back there, Lieutenant?”

Maverick doesn’t handle being yelled at well under normal circumstances, and with his nerves close to fraying for every second Ice and Slider are being held hostage by the Ghost Riders, he doesn’t even bother to keep a respectful tone in his voice. “I was _thinking,”_ he seethes, “that we needed a way to keep our men from being killed, so I thought of one. _Sir.”_

“Your quick thinking might have saved them for now,” Viper snaps, “but what exactly do you think is going to happen to them when we fail to produce their men in a week’s time, Mitchell?”

“Why would we fail to produce their men? We literally have them on board! We can trade them and then—”

“And then what?” Charlie cuts in. “What exactly will we report to Queen Anne? We have a mission to fulfill, a prisoner exchange that must go through if we want peace in our kingdom—”

“We don’t have to play by the rules here, Charlie! We can still go through with the exchange after we get—”

“We can’t deliver our prisoners to Patuxent and exchange them for Fallon soldiers if we give them to Miramar first,” Charlie snaps. “And now we’re in an impossible situation that holds the lives of your fellow soldiers in the balance, all because your feelings for Lieutenant Kazansky blinded you to what needed to be done!”

“What _needed_ to be done?” Maverick’s rage threatens to make him shake. “What the hell are you suggesting I should have done? Stand there and let the Ghost Riders kill Ice and Slider?”

“If it meant the success of your mission, then yes, that’s what I’m suggesting you should have done! They’re soldiers, they knew what they were signing up for when—”

_“They didn’t sign up to die while we stood around and did fucking nothing!”_

“Like what you did was more sensible?”

“It bought us time! It bought _them_ time! I’m telling you, we can save Ice and Slider and still go through with the exchange! We’ll pretend to go to Patuxent, return, overpower the Ghost Riders, save Ice and Slider, and then still be there in time for the real exchange!”

“No,” Charlie says at once. “It’s too risky.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“This isn’t your decision to make, or your risk to take! I will not let you put everyone’s lives and the mission at risk just so you can save your boyfriend!”

 _“Let me?”_ Maverick’s shouting just as loud as Charlie is now, not caring who’s in the room with him or how many of the crew are undoubtedly listening at the door. How dare Charlie try and diminish his love for Ice, diminish what Ice means to him. “I’d love to see you try and stop me.”

“The mission—”

 _“I love him!_ Fuck the fucking mission — I’m _not_ going to let Ice or Slider die when I can save them!”

“Well, I am going to _finish my sentence,_ Lieutenant — you need the approval of a commanding officer before you go through with this hair-brained scheme of yours that will put the entire _ship_ at risk, not to mention the future of the kingdom, and don’t think for a single second I am going to let you—”

“Enough,” Viper says sharply. Maverick jumps about a foot in the air, and so does Charlie. Clearly they’d both forgotten Viper was even in his quarters with them. “I won’t have you two going at each other’s throats like this, like children. Pull yourselves together.”

Charlie huffs and turns away from him. Maverick reaches into his pocket and clutches Ice’s ring until his fingers go numb.

“Now,” Viper says, once a reasonable amount of time has passed. “Lieutenant, I’m not going to sit here and blow sunshine up your ass: you fucked up today. Your scheme could have failed a hundred different times and landed us all in the same situation as Kazansky and Kerner, or worse. But,” and he follows this with a _look_ in Charlie’s direction. “I’m not above listening to thought-out plans that could satisfy the queen and save the men being held hostage. We have to follow our brains and instincts before we follow our hearts blindly.”

 _So don’t fuck it up again,_ Maverick hears. Instead of giving up, like he once would have, his resolve hardens. “We need to take this chance,” he says. “Please.”

Charlie says nothing, even after Viper nods. She turns on her heel and heads for the door; she only looks back when her hand is on the doorknob, her eyes meeting Maverick’s for a brief moment. In that split second, every word they need to say is shared.

* * *

“I saw you at the diner this afternoon,” Charlie says abruptly.

Pete looks up, but his movements are slow, like he’s moving through molasses. Every movement today has been the same, ever since Tom Nolan put that damned ring on his finger and for a moment, he thought he was somewhere else. In another place, another time. Another life. “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t see you.”

“I went to grab a bite to eat with some of my coworkers,” she says. “You were there with Tom Nolan.”

Pete stiffens at her tone. “So what if I was?”

“You’ve had lunch with him twice in the last week.”

“So?” Pete says. “You’ve had lunch with your coworkers every day this week. Why can’t I have lunch with a friend?”

“I’m not saying you can’t,” Charlie says, in that voice she always uses when she thinks he’s being a child. “But don’t you think it’s strange the way he’s…latched on to you, of all people?”

“What the hell does that mean?” Pete hardly ever swears, but he really doesn’t like the tone his wife is taking with him right now. Not that she’s never used it before — and usually he thinks she’s right to do so, that he should just go along with whatever she wants — but now that she’s brought Tom Nolan into this, he’s livid.

“He was in a coma for ages. He’s only been awake for a few weeks, Pete. Maybe he’s trying to take advantage of you.”

“And what exactly do I have that he could want?”

“I don’t know!” Charlie snaps, irritated. Then she softens. “Just…stay away from him for a while, alright? I don’t trust him.”

Pete sullenly stabs his fork into the chicken on his plate. Now he feels exactly like the child Charlie thinks he is — but she’s his wife, and she does seem concerned for him. It won’t kill him to do what she says. “Okay,” he mutters. “Fine.”

This time, he’ll drop it.

* * *

Another week of searching for John Glass comes and goes, with no luck. Bradley stubbornly insists that Glass is hiding out somewhere in town and that Kendrick is protecting him, or that Kendrick got rid of Glass somehow. Phoenix has a feeling that the second guess is more accurate, and prays that it wasn’t in the way that her father usually gets rid of people who disappoint him. 

Saturday night finds her in the diner again, this time without Bradley, who’s on patrol. Susan is there, flitting from table to table, and gives her smiles and refills on her coffee whenever she passes. Phoenix is happy about Bradley’s arrival for a number of reasons, but especially because time is _finally_ moving around here — and people she likes remember to call her Phoenix instead of Monica when she asks them to.

“Just you tonight, hon?”

Phoenix almost drops her coffee cup on her lap. Sitting down in the table nearest her booth is none other than Pete Matthews, sans Charlie Matthews. She’s barely seen him around since she’s been so busy investigating with Bradley; to her joy, he’s mostly been around Tom Nolan, his husband’s cursed persona. The sooner she and Bradley figure out what happened to Glass, the sooner they can go back to pushing the two of them together and breaking this damned curse.

“Just me,” Pete confirms to Sherry, who hands him a menu and heads over to the counter again.

Just then, the door opens, and Phoenix fights the urge to squeal as Tom Nolan comes into the finer with a thermos in hand, probably to get coffee or tea — and then makes a beeline for Pete’s table. “Hey,” he says, smiling. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” Pete says. For some reason, his smile looks forced. “Long time.”

Tom frowns slightly. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Pete says. He drops his gaze completely. “Yeah, um. I’m just waiting on my wife, so…”

Frustrated, Phoenix wants to bang her head on the table. _Damn_ this curse for making Maverick Mitchell a cautious pushover, and double-damn this curse for making Iceman Kazansky a too-kind mouse. Iceman wouldn’t have let Maverick hide his feelings from him, but Tom just says, so hopeful it makes Phoenix’s heart hurt, “Maybe I’ll see you later then.”

“I’m pretty busy now,” Pete says. “But I’ll let you know when I’m free.”

Tom’s frown grows more pronounced. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Okay.”

 _Don’t let him leave!_ Phoenix wants to scream. But Pete just buries his face in the menu while Tom gets his thermos refilled and, with a confused look over his shoulder at Pete, walks out of the diner again.

“What gives?” Phoenix says to Pete, who startles. Just because he’s her old teacher and her hero doesn’t mean she’s going to let him wallow in cursed self-pity when he could be going after his husband. “I thought you two were friends.”

“We are!”

“Then why the hell are you treating him like yesterday’s trash? Your wife isn’t joining you; he could have sat with you.”

“It’s not…” Pete shuts up when Sherry returns with a notepad in hand to take his order. “Just a cup of coffee is fine, thanks Sherry.”

“And for you, Phoenix? You want a refill on your water?”

“No thanks,” Phoenix says, smiling a little. The smile drops as soon as Sherry walks away. “So what isn’t it, then?”

“I…” Pete goes red. “It…I barely know him. I shouldn’t be spending so much time with him.”

 _You barely know him because my father made him a blank slate. The more time you spend with him, the more Iceman Kazansky emerges from the shell that is Tom Nolan. You_ have _to stay together. This curse has to break._ “He barely knows you either,” she points out. “He doesn’t seem to mind spending time with you.”

“That’s not the same thing. He’s…he could be…look, even if Charlie doesn’t like him, I…” Pete goes even redder and stops talking. For the hundredth time, Phoenix wants to rage against the curse for making Charlie Blackwood like this. Even if her relationship with Maverick had always been a little strained after the Ghost Riders took Iceman and Slider hostage, she never would have treated Maverick like this. 

“Do you like him?”

Pete makes an abortive gesture toward his wedding ring, and Phoenix has her answer even before he says anything else. “Sure,” he says, still pink in the face. “But I’m not…” His voice goes quiet. “I can’t do anything about it. I can never…”

 _I can never have anything I want,_ Phoenix hears. Her heart aches for him. “You know,” she says lightly. “Sometimes, you just have to grab life by the horns and go for what you want instead of letting it get away from you.”

Pete looks up at her, frowning. “What?”

“You know,” Phoenix says. She glances over at the door. “Follow your heart. See where it takes you.”

Sherry comes back with Pete’s coffee, and he stares at the wispy steam rising from it like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Hey,” she says. “Everything okay, hon?”

Pete finally looks up again, and for a split second, Phoenix feels her heart leap. It’s barely noticeable, and might have even been a trick of the light, but the look of determination that had briefly crossed his face is pure Maverick Mitchell. “Yes,” he says. He nods at the cup. “Can I get this to go?”

* * *

One Year, Six Months, Three Weeks Before The Curse: 

“Lieutenant Mitchell,” Scott says, smiling as Maverick approaches him. Behind him are Viper and Jester, who have their hands on the shoulders of two men with hoods over their heads. “So nice to see you and your lovely crew again.”

Maverick is not in the mood for pleasantries. “You’ve seen your men,” he says. “Where are ours?”

Scott raises his eyebrows. “So impatient,” he says. “Willard, Simkin?”

Willard and Simkin step forward, and Maverick lets himself breathe for the first time in a week. Ice and Slider are standing in front of the two Ghost Riders; they’re gagged and their hands are bound, and the Ghost Riders have their swords at their backs, but they’re upright and alive, both of them. _Thank fuck. Thank everything._

“You first,” Scott says. Maverick opens his mouth to protest, but Scott says sharply, “Now, Lieutenant. I won’t ask again.”

Maverick grits his teeth, but he nods.

Viper brings the men forward, shoving them at Scott with a disgusted look on his face. Scott smiles again, but he doesn’t sheathe his sword. “Gentlemen,” he says. “Thank you for your sacrifice for the king and country. King Edward will be pleased to see you again.”

“Happy to help,” says one of them.

Scott’s smile vanishes abruptly. Just as he yanks the hood off the face of the man who’d spoken to reveal Hollywood’s grinning face, Maverick tackles Scott to the deck and all hell breaks loose.

Viper goes straight for Wells, and Jester leads Chipper, Sundown, and the others toward the cluster of Ghost Riders with the gold-tipped cutlasses and razor-sharp smiles. Maverick slams Scott’s head into the floor until he’s sure he’s unconscious, and jumps back to his feet, narrowly missing the weapon that flies straight at his head. Where the _fuck_ are Willard and Simkin? Slider’s free from Willard’s grasp, good, Merlin freed him, but where’s—

Maverick turns in what feels like slow motion to see Ice slam the back of his head into Simkin’s face, sending them stumbling backwards toward the railing — the same railing he and Goose had gone over months ago, the same railing Goose hadn’t returned alive from. Maverick sprints toward them, dropping his sword so he can reach for Ice, his heart pounding a terrified frenzy against his ribs—

Maverick leaps out and lunges for the back of Ice’s uniform right as Simkin goes overboard — but he misses by a second and his body slams to the ground in the space where they’d been standing a second ago. But (thank god thank god thank god) Ice had managed to hook his leg around the railing right before he went tumbling into the ocean as well, and now he’s dangling for dear life by one knee.

“Ice!” Maverick scrambles to his feet and desperately glances around looking for a rope. Something, anything to get him back up to safety. “Ice, hang on, hang on—”

He looks over the railing again, just to verify for himself that Ice is still there, still hanging on, but Ice’s eyes have gone wide with horror. The gag has slipped loose in the chaos, and Ice spits it out of his mouth and shouts, _“Mav, get down!”_

In the second it takes for the words to register, dark blood sprays his face, and Scott’s head tumbles down past Ice into the ocean, his body collapsing like a felled tree to the deck. Maverick would throw up his breakfast if he weren’t so simultaneously terrified and confused. _How in the hell did—?_

Then Charlie shoves past him, sheathing her now bloody sword in its scabbard as she tosses the end of a rope down to Ice. “Grab it, Lieutenant,” she orders, and Maverick and Ice both grab hold of the end. “One, two, three!”

Charlie helps Maverick yank Ice back up to the deck, where he falls right into Maverick’s waiting arms. Around them, swords continue to clash and clang as the Ghost Riders beat a hasty retreat to their own ship — the ones that the crew of the _TOPGUN_ has left alive, anyway — but Maverick only has eyes for Ice. “You’re okay,” he keeps saying over and over again, just to convince himself. His hands are fluttering over Ice’s face, his shoulders, his arms, feeling for some kind of injury beyond exhaustion. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay, Mav,” Ice says. “I promise.” He pulls Maverick close and touches Maverick’s face with his free hand. “You saved me.”

Despite everything, Maverick grins, feeling the tension and terror that had racked him for days finally dissipate. “Did you ever doubt I would?”

“Never,” Ice says, grinning too. He takes Maverick’s face in his hands and kisses him deep, and everything in Maverick’s body — his veins, his collarbone, the backs of his knees — fills up with light.

* * *

He can’t be here. It’s late, and Charlie’s expecting him, and Tom definitely won’t want anything to do with him, not after the way Pete’s been treating him all week. But Phoenix Kendrick’s voice is in his head, whispering _Follow your heart_ like an incantation, and his feet lead him to Tom’s house, unbidden. It’s smaller than Pete’s, but the paint is fresh and the lawn is neat and there’s an interesting toy windmill on the front porch. He’d study it more if he weren’t terrified out of his mind.

 _Man up, Matthews,_ he tells himself, and bangs on the door.

It opens almost immediately to reveal a tired-looking Tom Nolan, clad in jeans and a long-sleeved plaid shirt. His hair looks more shaggy and rumpled than usual; Pete wants to run his hands through it. Pete wants to — he wants—

“Pete,” Tom says, frowning. “What’re you doing here? Are you okay?”

“I wanted to see you,” Pete blurts, but no, that’s not right. Being impulsive and outspoken is _really_ not his thing, and he doesn’t even have the excuse of being drunk to explain his actions. Just being around this man makes him feel off-kilter, in the best possible way. In a way that’s almost…familiar. 

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re—” _You’re amazing._ “Because I’m sorry for treating you the way I did. It wasn’t fair to you, not when you’re the only friend I’ve got. Not when you’re…” _Follow your heart._ “Not when I feel about you the way I do.”

The world seems to still. Tom blinks once, cautiously taking a step forward. “Pete, I don’t—”

Pete scrubs a hand down his face, desperate to explain himself. “Look, I don’t understand it either, I know it’s only been a few weeks since we met, but when I’m with you, it’s like…it’s like everything in my life finally makes sense _._ And I know I can’t promise you anything, I’m married and I don’t have anything to offer you, but—”

It’s hard to say anything after that with Tom’s lips pressed firmly to his.

Pete’s mind goes beautifully blank for a full minute as his body takes over, memorizing and categorizing every breath, touch, and sound that has to do with the man currently kissing him. All of his worries and fears disappear as if swept away by a current, and he thinks, _Yes._ Yes, yes, yes. This is what he should have been doing all along.

Tom pulls away first, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant (and Pete spares a moment to wonder how he even knows that) when he says, “That okay with you?”

Pete fights the urge to laugh, not quite succeeding. “It’s okay with me,” he says. “Very, very okay.”

Tom’s smile is so beautiful that Pete’s heart feels like it might give out. “Good,” he says lightly. “I was wondering what it would take to get you to shut up.”

“A kiss works.”

“Duly noted,” Tom says, and then he kisses Pete again.

* * *

Edward is seething.

This is _not_ supposed to be happening. It can’t be. All those years ago, he’d crafted the curse to make everyone who had made him suffer mere shadows of their former selves; _how_ could the sniveling coward that his stepson had become found the courage to take what he wanted? And how could Tom Nolan, who he’d made a blank slate with an infuriatingly noble personality, let this happen? They were _both_ supposed to suffer the misery of unrequited feelings — not _this._

Bradley Bradshaw is to blame. Edward knows it. The damned Savior had outstayed his welcome, befriended Edward’s daughter, and, since he’d somehow won the election over John Glass (now back in the mirror where he belongs), has actually managed to _change_ things. The cursed peons of this town may not realize it — and, perhaps, neither may the Savior — but they’re slowly but surely shifting back to their former selves. And now Pete Matthews and Tom Nolan have kissed for the first time, and that means—

Nothing.

Edward blinks. Nothing. Yes. It means _nothing._ Whatever bond has formed between Pete Matthews and Tom Nolan is nowhere near as strong as the love was between Iceman Kazansky and Maverick Mitchell, the love that he destroyed by casting the curse. Furthermore, it isn’t even love; just attraction. And attraction cannot become True Love here, not even if it is allowed to bloom into something deeper. True Love must be fought for to be created, and both parties involved must believe in magic for it to work.

A slow smile spreads across his face. Excellent. His curse is still intact, and within it, he still has the power to make his stepson and those he loves suffer.

He raises his phone and takes a picture just as Tom Nolan and Pete Matthews kiss each other again.

* * *

One Year, Six Months, Three Weeks Before The Curse: 

“I think I have something that belongs to you,” Maverick says, later in bed.

Ice turns over to face him, frowning slightly. “What do you mean?”

Maverick takes Ice’s ring off his finger, and slides it back onto Ice’s hand where it belongs; then kisses Ice’s hand for good measure. “This is yours,” he says, keeping his voice low so no one can overhear. “I thought I’d never get the chance to give it back to you, but…”

Ice smiles, just a little. “Thanks, Mav,” he whispers, and kisses Maverick on the nose. “I’m glad you got the chance to give it back to me.”

Maverick smiles too. “Me too,” he says. “I love you.”

Ice’s eyes go wide. Maverick has exactly one second to panic before a matching smile spreads across Ice’s face, and Ice kisses him for real this time. That light feeling from earlier washes over him like a warm bath; he feels like he’s simultaneously melting and rising above the earth, seeing colors he’s never seen before. Perfect. It feels perfect. And it feels even better when Ice whispers, “I love you too.”

* * *

“Decaf or regular?”

Bradley tries for a smile that falls short. “Got anything stronger?”

“Sorry,” Susan says. “I’m like a bartender without the booze. But I’ll give you the strongest cup we’ve got.” She pours a cup and slides it over to him, which Bradley gratefully accepts. “Why the long face, Sheriff?”

Bradley sighs and braces his chin on his hands. “Just a lot of work lately trying to find Glass,” he says. “You’ve probably noticed he hasn’t been around lately.”

Susan frowns. “Who’s Glass?”

Bradley frowns too. “John Glass,” he says. “Newspaper editor, interim sheriff. He was my opponent in the sheriff’s race.”

There’s no sign of recognition on Susan’s face at all. “Bradley, you ran uncontested. Don’t you remember?”

“What? No, I didn’t. There was…Kendrick appointed Glass as the interim sheriff after Stinger died, and we ran against each other. I beat him. I saved Phoenix, there was a debate — don’t you remember?”

Susan shakes her head, a concerned furrow in her brow. “Honey, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bradley shakes his head once, and then again. The blood running through his veins seems to have turned into ice. What is Susan talking about? How can she not remember? “The newspaper,” he says, seizing on the indisputable facts. “The issue of the paper that says I won. You’ve still got that taped to the wall, right?”

He doesn’t wait for her to reply. He tears off across the diner to Sherry’s so-called Wall of Fame, and finds his picture instantly. But instead of the headline reading _Bradshaw Defeats Glass,_ it simply reads _Sheriff’s Position Finally Filled._ Even the article is different, and the picture — there’s no picture of Glass. It’s almost like…like Glass never existed at all. 

Bradley’s mouth goes as dry as dust.

_What the fuck is going on here?_

* * *

One Year, Six Months Before The Curse: 

“Say it again,” Edward says. His voice is low and cold, but fury blazes bright within him. And something else, something he cannot put a name to. “Tell me once more what you saw.”

“Your Majesty,” says Wells, his voice quivering just a tad. As Alfred Scott had been decapitated during the attack on the Fallon Navy ship, now Edward has to deal with his incompetent second in command. “I say again, that Scott dealt solely with a lady admiral whose name I did not catch, a captain called Metcalf, and an upstart lieutenant by the name of Maverick Mitchell.”

“And what did this lieutenant look like?”

“He had dark hair and green eyes, Your Majesty, and looked to be around the missing prince’s age. And he looked strong. He was on the shorter side, to be sure, sire, but strong nonetheless. He handled a sword with ease. That is why I was hesitant to speak of this at all, Your Majesty, as I knew your stepson to be no fighter.”

Edward’s fists clench, sending sparks of purple energy sailing out of his scepter. It had been more than two years since his Huntsman let Peter escape Miramar; he’d had the man searching every nook, cranny, and crevice of the kingdom ever since, and several other kingdoms to boot. How could Peter have evaded his grasp for so long?

Then again, he reflects, magic must be airtight, free of loopholes entirely, for it to work in his favor. He’d instructed the Huntsman to search for Prince Peter for all this time, and he had instructed his magic to do the same, but…

“Magic Mirror,” he snaps. “Show me Maverick Mitchell.”

The indistinct face in the mirror swirls away into nothingness before revealing a small, dirty-looking room. Likely a washroom of some sort, judging by the makeshift sink and showers, and on a ship, based on the way the image rocks slightly from side to side. And from the mirror that _his_ Magic Mirror had temporarily taken over, he watches a dark-haired man smile at a taller blond man, both of them in the uniforms of the Fallon Royal Navy.

“Ice,” Peter is saying, “c’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go with the others to the pub for a while when we dock, and by the time they’re too drunk to realize we’re gone, we can head back to the ship and spend some quality time together.”

The blond man — Ice, what a stupid name — shakes his head, but he’s smiling too. “I’ve got some coin saved,” he says. “We can rent a room for the night. Spend some quality time on a bed that doesn’t move when we do.”

Peter flushes pink, but he grins wide and carefree as he pulls the man toward him by the belt loops. “Sounds like a plan.”

Edward banishes the image with a wave of his scepter, and banishes Wells from the room with his other hand. So. Not only is his foolish stepson alive, he’s _thriving._ Peter had run away to the opposing kingdom, taken a new name, and joined the Royal Navy — and he’d fallen in love. Hopelessly so, if this mere interaction between him and the blond man is any indication.

Edward smiles. How interesting.


End file.
